Poor Little Lamb
by HamAndCheese
Summary: Hutch's sister gets assigned to ferry planes around the South Pacific as a WASP. The Black Sheep aren't quite sure what to do with a female pilot, and she would rather have nothing to do with the cocky male pilots. In a time of war, though, can the pilots learn to live with her, or will they alienate her, and their mechanic too?
1. Chapter 1

Poor Little Lamb

**Hiya. Okay, before we even start, I'd like to say one thing. As this is a fanfiction, it will not be true to history. Especially since the show that it is based on is only loosely based on history, and since this is true to the show, it won't get near to being true to reality.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any rights to anything except for my OC.**

* * *

"Calling Vella La Cava. Come in La Cava. This is November one. Over." The pilot dropped her hand from her mic back to the stick. Static crackled and the reply rang out over the speaker.

"This is Black Sheep Ground, La Cava. What can I do for ya, November one?" The operator on the ground drawled.

"Got a new Corsair for you gentlemen, Ground. Can I get clearance to set her down?" The little blue plane jogged a bit in a patch of turbulence as it circled the dirt strip, waiting for permission to land.

"It's all yours, November. Go ahead and make the final turn on your approach and set 'er down. Black Sheep Ground, over n' out." Another crackle of static and the speaker went quiet.

The pilot steadied the stick and banked slightly, lining up with the end of the runway. The plane set down with a screech of its tires on the dubiously paved strip and taxied into the lineup of battered Corsairs. It let out a cough and a puff of smoke as the power was killed. On the ground, a lanky mechanic shrugged. The plane was in better shape than the rest. A little puff of smoke, he could live with.

The pilot climbed out of the cockpit and dropped to the ground, forgoing the toeholds that the other pilots used to scramble in and out. At nearly six feet tall, the pilot honestly looked like they didn't need to scramble up and down, that they could just reach up and pull themselves in.

Hutch, the squad's mechanic, loped across the strip from the maintenance shed. "You don't even know how glad I am to see that plane!" He grinned, shoving his wrench in his back pocket. "I got one I just grounded as parts."

The pilot pulled off her flight helmet and shook loose her braid. "Same old, silly Hutch. Always complaining!" She laughed happily, amused by the look of surprise on the mechanic's face. "What? No hug for your little sister? It was a long trip out here!"

Hutch pounced on her gleefully. "Stretch! I didn't know you finished your WASP training!" He let her go and held the equally lanky young woman at an arm's length. "I didn't know they had WASPs outside the States."

"They ain't supposed to. But there wasn't any one else, so I hopped my way out here, taking stuff from one island to the next." She grinned. "Gotta say Hutch, pretty nice little paradise you got out here."

"Yeah, 'cept the mosquitos, the malaria, the Japs and old Washing Machine Charlie." Hutch grumbled, his voice muffled by the paneling of the plane and he examined the engine of the fresh bird. "Oil change and she'll be ready." He announced, wiping his hands on a filthy rag as he emerged. "Better get on over to the commander's tent and let Pappy know you brought his new plane, Stretch."

She ducked her head and turned on her heel, heading towards the cluster of tents.

* * *

"T.J.. Tell me I'm seeing double." Lieutenant Boyle shook the shoulder of the blonde pilot next to him. "I am, aren't I, Bragg?" He looked to another pilot nearby.

They had been lounging on a pile of crates in the shade of the trees, watching the runway for the rumored new plane to arrive.

"I'll believe it when I see it." Captain Jim Gutterman had announced derisively when they'd gotten the news. And now, watching a somewhat newer, somewhat nicer Corsair taxi into the line, he found himself eating his words.

The pilots watched the joyful reunion with a great sense of bewilderment. Sure, they'd heard that female pilots were ferrying planes around Stateside for the military, but they never thought they'd see one on Vella La Cava. And they certainly never thought they'd see a woman that tall.

"Is it just me, or is there two Hutches?" Boyle repeated.

"Nah. It ain't just you, Boyle. There's two of 'im." Bragg agreed slowly.

As the female pilot sauntered off towards the camp, with Hutch's same loping gait, T.J. crooned, "Well isn't she just the cutest little thing you've ever seen?"

"Little?!" Boyle yelped in surprise.

"Cute?!" Gutterman mumbled. "I'd be more likely to kiss Hutch himself than her!"

"T.J., she's gotta be at least six feet tall!" Bragg protested. It was too late though.

"Aw, he's completely taken with her, guys. More nurses for the rest of us." Boyle sighed in mock resignation. They all knew that with the charming Lieutenant out of action, they'd have a better chance at the islands few inhabitants of the female persuasion. All the better for them, and if T.J. wanted to break his neck looking up at that beanpole of a girl, let 'im.

* * *

Bettie, or "Stretch" as she was affectionately called by her older brother, knocked on the support post of the CO's tent. The Major looked up at the sound and she brought her hand up in salute.

"WASP Pilot Hutchinson, sir. Your new Corsair arrived." She reported. WASPs weren't formally military, but she felt strange introducing herself as Miss Margo Hutchinson in a military setting. She desperately wished she had a rank to use. Even sergeant, like her brother, would have pleased her.

Boyington returned the salute in his usual lazy fashion. "Great to hear, Pilot." He grinned. Her cheeks colored slightly with pride that he addressed her as a pilot. "Your brother is about out of planes to keep us flying."

He turned back to his paperwork, but glanced up at Bettie as she shifted uncomfortably. Halfway around the world, she didn't expect to be delivering a plane to her brother's base, and she certainly didn't expect the men stationed there to already know that she was Hutch's sister.

"Don't look so surprised, Miss Hutchinson." The Major chuckled, "Hutch has been going on about his baby sister becoming a pilot since the day he got your letter. And to be quite honest, you two look quite a bit similar…" He trailed off, lost in thought.

"Anyways, I need to finish up this paperwork. Rare thing. Why don't you go find your brother or one of my pilots to get you settled until you can catch a ride back on the supply plane?" He offered. "I'm sure your orders will probably come in soon."

Bettie saluted once more and headed out back towards the strip, not a little disgruntled. All her life she'd been told she looked just like her brother. Unfortunately for her, she did. She always told herself she was a little homely, perhaps, with her strong nose. A little skinny. A little tall. But the boys would catch up to her. She had to face it around eleventh grade that frankly, at nearly six feet and still climbing, not too many boys would want to go with her. She ended up topping out at a couple inches shorter than her brother.

Upon reaching the strip, she ignored the pilots sprawled in the shade, and headed straight for Hutch, who was happily puttering with his new bird. Upon hearing her approach, he thrust an engine piece in her direction. "Hold this." He ordered, reaching further into the engine and wiggling something. Another small piece emerged from the engine and Hutch examined it for a brief moment, before tossing it over his shoulder and taking the larger piece back from Bettie.

He fitted it into place, as he explained. "The damn things always go bad out here. You don't need that part to fly, but if you're flying when it goes, you'll wish you didn't have one."

He clambered down from his perch atop a rickety ladder and wiped his hands on his trousers. "So when they sending you back?"

"When my orders come through," she shrugged, then grinned impishly. "_If_ they come through."

Hutch shook his head. "You and Pappy will get along just fine." He sighed, folding his ladder. His sister always did have a way of arranging what she wanted, much like his CO. "I gotta finish up these repairs by tomorrow. Go bug some of those pain in the ass flyboys and make them do something useful." He jerked his head towards the pilots she'd passed. "Tell them to find you a tent for the mean time."

* * *

"Don't look! Here she comes!" There was a frantic scramble amongst the pilots to look occupied, and not like they were watching every move that the woman pilot made.

T.J. Wiley blushed furiously as he focused on cleaning his nails with a knife tip, and the others tried hard not to initiate eye contact with the towering woman.

"Gentlemen, I was hoping…" She began, hesitating at the lack of interest they showed her, before finding her voice. "I was hoping one of you could show me to a spare bunk until I can catch a ride out of here." She finished much more firmly.

Gutterman, Boyle, and Bragg ignored her, but Wiley couldn't help but look up. "S-sure. I'll take you." He stammered. He closed his pocket knife and stuck it in his pocket, before getting to his feet.

"I'll—I'll take your bag." He offered hurriedly, practically snatching the bag away from Bettie. She held her hands up in surrender.

"Sure. Sure." She mumbled in a bit of a surprised tone. She wasn't exactly used to having men carry things for her, much less take them from her. He hurried off towards camp, but she kept up easily.

"So, you're a WASP?!" T.J. asked excitedly, before catching himself, "I mean, that's pretty neat. That's a big accomplishment."

Bettie flushed a bit. It was nice to have someone recognize the work she'd put in. A lot of the military pilots she'd met through ferrying planes around just wanted to brag about their kills and their combat experience. Many of them hadn't been terribly impressive.

"Thank you." She said simply. She wasn't quite sure what to think about this strange pilot.

It suddenly occurred to T.J. that he'd been so excited that he'd forgotten to introduce himself, and find out her name. "Oh! Lieutenant Wiley, Miss. T.J.. Call me T.J.." He gave he a friendly grin.

"Bettie. Bettie Hutchinson." She offered her hand to Wiley, who shook it enthusiastically.

"Pleasure, Miss Hutchins—Hutchinson?! Like Hutch? _Hutch_ Hutch?"

"Yes, like Hutch." She giggled "Why are you so surprised? Major Boyington said we're rather similar looking…" She grimaced.

"Yeah! You do!" T.J. agreed, holding aside the flap of the guest tent. "I mean… Like Hutch in a good way. Like family. Like a prettier Hutch." He stammered, before going quiet. "Here's your tent."

"Thank you, T.J.." Bettie said stiffly took her bag from his hand and stooped low as she stepped into the tent. As the flap fell into place she heard T.J. say,

"I-if you need anything, let me know!"

* * *

As the tent flap dropped into place between them, T.J. heard himself stammering after her.

_Stupid! _He scolded himself, _Why would you tell her she looks like _Hutch?!

He trudged back through camp to the strip, where the other pilots waited, grinning like wolves. He dragged slower and slower towards them, knowing they'd hassle him.

"Aw, she didn't invite you in, Wiley?" Gutterman gibed. The rest of the officers circled around behind T.J., giving him playful shoves.

"Hey, hey, hey! Gentlemen!" T.J. held up his hands, quieting them down, "All good things take time." He leaned against the crates, and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a proffered Zippo.

Underneath a thick layer of bravado, T.J. was still grimacing. He was used to being shot down—hell, between the Japs and the nurses it was a common enough occurrence—but he'd never shot himself down before! The other officers would never let him live it down if they found out.

He took a long drag, before blowing out a puff of smoke, "Y'know, that's the problem with you guys. Gals take some time to warm up, and a gentleman respects that." He nodded solemnly, after pronouncing his insight. The other pilots just jeered at his hypocrisy. T.J. could be quite the scoundrel, same as the rest of them. That's why they were all here, anyways. Scoundrels, pirates, oddballs, the lot of them.

* * *

The next morning found Bettie shoulder deep in an engine, tightening a bolt. She'd folded a nearly worn out flight suit down around her hips and wore a grease-stained, olive drab tee shirt on top. She sure as heck wasn't going to ruin what little clothes she had that fit her tall frame helping Hutch out with the Corsairs.

The flight suit had been a handmedown from a male instructor while she was in WASP training, since none of the female uniforms had fit her. The tan suit had been a Marine flight suit at one point, but she'd stripped off the old insignia patches and added her own. But now, with the cuffs fraying and the zipper sticking occasionally, she'd retired it to work clothes, and had been given an actual WASP suit since.

"Hutch!" She called down from where she knelt on top of the engine, her face squinched up in concentration. Her brother looked up from the next plane over, shading his eyes.

"What, Stretch?" He yawned. He'd been up all night working, and she'd padded out to the still lit airfield a little after 0330 hours, claiming she couldn't sleep anyways, so she might as well help.

"This hose is going." She explained, still feeling the length of the hose, trying to determine if it could be salvaged. She knew Hutch was low on parts, and they were trying to use what they could.

Hutch sighed tiredly. "They all are. The humidity and the heat rots them. Can it be taped?"

Bettie shook her head as she retracted her hand from the engine. "Nah. It's disintegrating.

Hutch swore and threw his wrench across the space between the birds. "Lemme see if I have another." He grumbled as he stalked away.

Bettie sat back on her heels and wiped her hands on what had once been a shirt, but was so torn and stained beyond recognition that it had been relegated to the rag pile in the mechanic's shed. She tucked the corner of it down the back of her rolled down flight suit and surveyed La Cava from her perch. No annoying pilots to ignore her or snub her, no activity, except for the Major's dog, which came trotting over.

She leaned forward with a grin and patted her hand as low as she could reach on the Corsair, making kiss noises at the pup. The dog, who's name she didn't know looked up at her, cocking its head curiously.

"Meatball! Get away from there!" A Texas drawl came ringing across the airfield. Meatball whined and hightailed it back to the camp, to Bettie's disappointment. I would have been nice to have a friend on the island, even if they had four legs. She pushed herself back up and glared at the approaching pilot. Cocky sonsabitches.

* * *

Jim Gutterman had gotten up early to talk to Hutch about his bird having an issue with power. He'd found Meatball out by the lineup, a place where the dog didn't belong. He wondered why the dog was out there and so interested in his plane. Gutterman shaded his eyes from the morning sun and saw a figure sitting on his engine. As he drew closer, he realized that the figure wasn't in fact Hutch, but the female pilot.

"Not gonna lie, darlin', having a woman wigglin' her ass in the air on my bird is a particular fantasy of mine," He drawled, "But what in God's name are you doin' up there?!"

The woman in question fixed him with a steely glare as she shook her braid over her shoulder. Hutch had appeared out of the mechanic's shed with a replacement, and she took it from him and reached down into the engine to swap the hoses before replying.

"Fixing your engine, Captain." She stated briskly, before pulling out the spent hose and tossing it at him. He fumbled trying to catch it. "Wouldn't want you falling right out of the sky now, would we?"

She wiped her hands again and slipped off the craft and onto the ladder, dropping lightly to the ground next to her brother.

"Man, I didn't know mechanics came in matched sets!" Gutterman grinned.

"Not that it's any of your business, but the Sergeant here is the mechanic, and I'm the pilot." She said stiffly.

Hutch groaned under his breath, "Gutterman…" Nothing could make his sister angrier than a man teasing her. He thought she was a bit up tight, but after watching her be tormented for her size for years, he couldn't blame her for shutting everyone down who dared to approach her.

Her eyes cut sideways to Hutch, "I'll be in my tent if you need more help." The terseness in her voice betrayed to him how uncomfortable she was, and he reached for her arm to stop her, but she was already striding away, her long legs covering the ground quickly.

"What can I do for you, Captain?" Hutch asked with a bit of a sigh, wiping his ever greasy hands on his ever greasier rag.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I only own the rights to my own OC**

* * *

Bettie was in her tent, sulking, for a lack of a better word. She'd been initially so excited to find a pilot in a bar on Espritos who was supposed to shuttle a Corsair to her brother's station and catch a ride back on the supply DC-10. After getting him quite soused, she'd volunteered to make the trip, as he was in no shape to fly. The pilot was chewed out by his CO, and the plane was hers. What she hadn't counted on though, were the pilots on the island. Lousy, stinking, cocky pilots. She couldn't wait to get off Vella La Cava, though she regretted that doing so meant leaving her brother behind.

With few women on the island, and their hospital being off limits, the men had little to amuse themselves with. And if it was teasing the ugly girl, she'd be damned to become the butt of their jokes. Bettie wanted to pace the length of her small tent, but her stature prevented her from being able to stand upright enough to comfortably do so. She reached into her bag and pulled out a comic book. _Captain America!_ was boldly printed across the cover. She leafed through it a bit, before replacing it. Her brother loved superhero comics, though they held no appeal to her. But at home, she'd faithfully buy his favorites weekly, and ship them to him. The latest batch she brought with her, since her orders came before she could ship them. She'd planned on doing it from another base, but hadn't had the time.

She heard the pilots joking and teasing as they walked past her tent, headed on a mission. It was the same the world over. Pilots would pretend that nothing was happening, that death couldn't touch them. But in the back of each of their minds, she knew that there was a dark cloud of doubt. Hell, even she had it when she was shuttling planes across more active areas. Flying was dangerous enough alone, but getting shot down terrified her.

Listening for the Corsairs to take off, she gathered up the pile of comic books she'd neatly stacked in the bottom of her bag and headed back to the strip, figuring she might as well help Hutch out, or at least give him a chance to take a break. Once the planes' engines faded away into the bright blue sky, she ducked through the flap in her tent, armed with a canteen and comics, her aviator sunglasses perched jauntily on her long nose, and her cap settled on her head.

She found Hutch perched on top of his ramshackle excuse for a ladder, tightening a bolt on a body panel. The name on the plane stated it as belonging to a Lieutenant J. Bragg, but she didn't have the faintest idea who that was. She pulled up next to Hutch, watching him work for a moment.

"Want a break?" She asked, wiping away a bead of sweat from her forehead. It was damn hot out here. No wonder Hutch tended to work through the night.

"Can't, Stretch. Gotta get these last five birds flying by oh-six-hundred hours tomorrow morning." He grumbled, not even pausing to look at her as he moved to the next bolt.

"Captain's orders, Sergeant." She grinned, holding up the stack of books, the Captain America comic on top. He turned to look at her quizzically, but broke into a grin when he saw what she had.

"You're the best sister a guy could have!" He chuckled, ruffling her hair. She made a face, patting the now greasy strands back into place. She guessed it didn't matter, in the end. She'd be as filthy as Hutch if she helped him out for a few hours.

"Take these," she instructed, handing him the comics, "and this. And go sit down in the shade for a bit and tell me how I'm doing it all wrong." She handed him the canteen and shooed him to the shade of the nearest tree, which wasn't too far away that he couldn't supervise. She climbed up to continue fastening the body panel, back in place, sneaking glances at her brother.

Bettie was amazed at how much her brother had changed in the months since he'd left for the South Pacific. The sun and the long hours of labor had taken their toll. He normally scrawny brother had become practically gaunt from the stress, and he looked much older than his nineteen years. Reading his beloved Captain America comics, however, she could see the boy she knew in that tired face.

She turned back to her work, finishing tightening the panel in place. Under Hutch's occasional direction, she greased the canopy tracks, changed oil, magneto points, hoses, patched bullet holes and cleaned out carburetors. She was working on the final plane, when she turned to ask Hutch a question about a loose tail flap, she found him snoring, his comic tented over his face to block the light. She smiled slightly, glad he was sleeping. In the mechanic's shed, she found the mechanic's guide for the Corsair and quickly sorted out her problem. After all, she'd been trained to work on her own plane, she'd just never worked on anything besides bombers. In fact, the Corsair she'd flown here was her first ever fighter.

In the hip pocket of her flight suit, she found a pencil stub that she carried for flight logs and a crumpled paper gum wrapper. She smoothed the wrapper and scribbled a note for Hutch on it, before folding it neatly and tucking in it his hand. She didn't want to wake him just to tell him that she'd finished the job. He needed more than a few hours of sleep. A full week, more likely.

The sun was beginning to set as she headed back towards camp, bathing the island in a fiery glow. She heard the drone of engines approaching and saw Hutch scramble awake and fumble his binoculars up to his face to count the planes. _So much for letting him sleep a bit_, she sighed, but mused that she probably shouldn't have left him to get caught sleeping. She knew a WASP would catch hell for sleeping when there was work to be done. But Hutch's job never ended, so she supposed a bit of sleep where he could steal it wouldn't put him in hot water with Boyington. She'd return in a bit, after the pilots had dissipated from the field. After her run in with the Captain, she didn't fancy more harassment.

* * *

"Hutch!" Boyington hollered as he clambered out of his plane. It was smoking more than normal as its engine wound down.

"Yo!" Hutch answered, bounding to the Major's side.

"I'm not getting any power here, Hutch. See if you can't figure it out." He explained, unfastening his Mae West. Noticing Hutch's crestfallen expression, he sighed, "Get that sister of yours out here, too. She might as well be useful while waiting for her orders, and Gutterman said she did a damn good job fixing the oil leak he was having."

* * *

Hutch didn't have to go fetch his sister. As soon as the pilots left, she came slinking out to the field. "Figured you could use a little more help." She mumbled, picking up a wrench and heading to the nearest plane.

He shook his head and followed her. She was _hiding_ from the pilots! It was almost enough to make him laugh aloud. As Bettie set to work patching bullet holes and removing the mangled lead, Hutch cracked open the engine compartment, standing back to let the hot metal cool.

"Those pilots have you all strung out." He finally commented, looking into the engine for the possible cause of Boyington's problems.

"No!" Bettie retorted sharply, "I just… don't enjoy my worth as a pilot being dismissed because I don't fly combat."

It was a lie, and they both knew it. Hutch let it go with a shrug. If she didn't want to talk about it, nothing in the world could make her. He was just glad to spend time with her again, even if it involved working on the planes.

"C'mon, Miss Lucybelle." He coaxed, reaching carefully into the engine. It was still too hot to touch, but with a lot of practice, he'd gotten good at working on the burning engine. He thought he'd spotted his problem.

"Excuse me?" Bettie asked, looking up from her work.

"Her name is Lucybelle." Hutch explained, head still in the engine. "It's on her nose."

Bettie looked up, and sure enough in the approaching darkness, she could make out the name Lucybelle painted in script next to the kill flags. "Are they all named?" She wondered aloud.

"Pretty much," Hutch answered, withdrawing from the engine compartment, "Just most of them don't waste the white paint or my time getting me to paint it on."

Hutch reached into the engine, but quickly withdrew his hand with a yelp and a string of curses. He nursed his burnt hand for a minute, before reaching for his dropped wrench. Bettie was at his side immediately, turning over his hand in hers. It was covered in dozens of burn scars, with the newest one flaring up red and angry. She snatched her canteen up from where Hutch had left it earlier in the day and doused his had with the remaining water.

"Dammit, John! Why can't you wait 'til they've cooled down before working on the engines!" She growled, examining the burn closely. From the looks of it, he'd had worse.

"Because, _Bettie_, I can't afford to lose that much time!" He emphasized her name in response to her using his. They never used their real names with each other. As long as they could remember, everyone had called him Hutch, so Bettie did too. And as she grew taller and taller, he began calling her Stretch and teasing her that she looked like pulled taffy. It was their form of affection for each other.

He snatched his hand away and continued his work with a little more care. The engine was beginning to cool anyways.

* * *

Greg Boyington was up earlier than necessary to check on the state of his planes. Coming in late from the previous day's mission with an early mission the next day didn't give the company mechanic much time to get the engines of all the planes running well, much less time to repair all the damage from the fighting. Hutch was good though, and with a little help, Greg had confidence in the kid.

When he reached the field, he found Hutch still laboring away, swearing under his breath the entire time. His sister, whatever her name was, was fast asleep in the dirt under the wing a few feet away, her head pillowed in her arms. It look like she'd been out there all night with Hutch, but she probably wasn't used to the erratic hours of being a mechanic. Hutch heard Boyington's approach, and held a finger to his lips in a shushing motion. She'd just fallen asleep after struggling to keep up with him all night.

Boyington nodded and drew closer to where Hutch was working. "How many do we have today, Hutch?" He asked quietly. He honestly didn't care if he woke the girl, but he didn't feel like vexing his mechanic, without whom, they'd be grounded.

"Got thirteen well enough to fly." Hutch answered, wrenching down on a bolt in the engine. He wiped his hands on his perpetually filthy rag.

"We need fifteen in the air to remain an active combat unit." The major reminded the mechanic sternly.

"I haven't gotten to the controls yet on that one," Hutch jerked his head towards the next plane over. "But I bet someone could horse it up, if they tried."

Boyington let out a grunt of frustration. "That still leaves me with fourteen, Sergeant."

"Well dammit, Pappy! Fourteen will have to do! At least until someone gets it through T.J.'s thick skull that he can't fly with the mixture he uses or through Anderson's that he can't take every goddamn Jap bullet home with him in his tail!" He raised his voice, waving the socket wrench in his hand erratically as he tried to get his point across to the major.

He was fighting a losing battle by himself. Bettie helped, but she had her own job to do and her own orders that would take her away. The pilots offered sometimes, but Hutch spent more time showing them how than actually working.

"Look, I'm sorry." He lowered his voice apologetically, noticing Bettie stirring fitfully, "I'm trying, Pappy. If I can get one, maybe two more hours, I could get fifteen up and running."

The major shook his head, feeling rueful that he yelled at his mechanic, who worked harder than anyone on this island. "Nah, Hutch. Just the thirteen will be fine for this mission. Thanks for trying."

As Boyington walked away, Hutch rested his head against the body of he plane, closing his eyes for a few seconds of rest. He shook himself, and then nudged Bettie carefully with his foot. "Wake up. We still have work to do."

She grumbled, but dutifully climbed to her feet, dusting herself off. "Whaddya wan'?" She yawned, stretching a bit.

Hutch pointed to the plane that had problems with the controls, "Work on the controls on that one. They're too stiff, and the rudder is pretty much frozen."

Bettie yawned again as she padded off to do her brother's bidding

* * *

All fifteen planes were ready in time for the mission, thanks to the siblings' feverish pace. When the pilots got back on the ground, Boyington went to find Bettie. Her orders had come through while they had been on their mission. He first checked the mechanic's shed and Hutch's camp, but all he found was the sleeping sergeant in his tent. He continued back towards camp and to the guest tent. He knocked, but when there was no sound of stirring, nor an answer, he stuck his head in.

"Hutchinson. Got your orders." He stated, looking at the still form lying face down on the cot. She stirred a little and mumbled something.

"What's that, pilot?" Greg asked, tipping his head.

Bettie picked her head up out of her arms and repeated, "I quit." Before dropping her head back to the pillow.

The major tipped his head back and laughed heartily. "You've just started! Anyways, your plane for Espritos leaves in two hours, at 1600 hours. You're to help move new bombers to the bomber wing on Rendova." He read off her orders from the sheet of paper in his hand. "I'll send someone to wake you when it's time to leave."

* * *

At 1530 hours, there was a knock on the post of her tent. Bettie grumbled and pushed herself up off the bed.

"Miss Hutchinson, your plane will be arriving soon!" A young voice called from outside. It always surprised her to see how young these boys were. She'd always thought of men going to war, when in reality, the men sent the boys to do the dirty work.

"I'm coming. I'm coming." She muttered as she gathered her few belongings together and back into her bag.

When she stepped out of her tent, she found her escort to be one of the pilots from the group lounging about when she'd arrived. He was on the shorter side, anyways, but as she looked down, the image of a Great Dane looking down at a Dachshund popped into her head. She stifled her giggles at the image and managed a straight face.

"Thank you, Lieutenant…?" She let the sentence trail, waiting for him to fill in his name.

"Boyle. Bobby Boyle." He supplied, offering a hand to shake and a friendly grin. She took his hand and gave him a firm shake. Her mother often told her to be more dainty about such things, but Bettie figured if she'd been meant to have a dainty handshake, she'd be more dainty herself.

"Good to meet you, Bobby. Please, call me Bettie."

He rewarded her with another friendly grin. She sort of liked this short fellow. "Ready to go, Bettie?"

She nodded and quietly followed the lieutenant to the airstrip. She was early for her plane. She imagined that Boyington had sent Boyle over early to give her time to pack. Boyle left her at the strip with a wave and a "See you later, Bettie!" which made her wonder exactly what the little lieutenant was thinking. She might not see them 'til another Corsair came up as available and they got ahold of it. And that was if there was another Corsair and if they got ahold of it and if she was ordered to take it to them. She returned the wave, and went to find Hutch and say goodbye.

Bettie found him sitting in the shade on a crate, smoking a cigarette. "What? Not hard at work, Sergeant Hutchinson?" She teased.

He handed her the cigarette as she sat down, "No. It's a damn miracle. Fifteen birds back and not a scratch on a single one. I hardly know what to do with myself, aside from just stare at them."

Bettie placed the cigarette between her lips and took a drag before giving it back to Hutch. That was another habit that her mother despised, but she'd picked it up from Hutch. The pitfalls of tagging after her older brother. They finished the cigarette together in silence, as well as another that Bettie supplied, while waiting for her plane. When it touched down, they watched as the Marine Infantrymen unloaded it. Finally it was time to go.

She and Hutch stood and he wrapped her up in a hug. "You be careful out there. Don't trust the mechanics. Especially the Navy ones" He warned her with a teasing tone. They weren't often genuinely affectionate, and she knew his teasing was his way of expressing his affection.

"I won't." She promised. "Bye, Hutch. I'll try and send you more comics when I can get ahold of them!"

They walked across the field together and he handed her up to the young corporal in the supply plane. Hutch waved as the door was pulled up, and he locked it from the outside, checking it to make sure it was secure. Soon, the plane was roaring down the runway, leaving Hutch looking after it until it disappeared from sight.

* * *

**The name "Lucybelle" came from Boyington's page on the Acepilots website. "Lu**belle" was the name of a plane used one time for a photoshoot, in which the name was partially obscured. Boyington claims that it was "Lulubelle" but the page reports that he was seeing a woman named Lucy at the time of the shoot, and a bystander later claimed the name as "Lucybelle." And well, let's face it, Boyington padded his kills quite a bit, so who are we to believe?**

**I personally like "Lucybelle," mostly since that's my dog's name!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Unfortunately, I've been using writing this story as a distraction from all the scary adult things in my life, like dealing with trying to get into grad school. So, if anyone is out there and actually reading this… it may be a bit 'til I update again, since I need to study for my GRE and stuff. But leave a review and I'd find time to update a little faster. There's just no point if I'm just writing for just me!**

**Disclaimer: Still only own my OC. Bummer.**

* * *

Bettie had been enjoying flying with the other WASPs who had made their way to the South Pacific as she had. It had been several weeks of ferrying planes from base to base, seeing more of the islands. It had been an enjoyable few weeks. She loved the volcanic islands and the coral atolls that she was surrounded by, finding them very exotic compared to her hometown of Flint, Michigan. Very exotic indeed.

While Bettie usually kept to herself, she did become something of a legend around the bases of the South Pacific, simply for her height. Some of the names she heard were less than kind, but others could be slightly admiring, she thought. Sure, The Amazon wasn't very flattering, but she didn't mind being the tall, fearless WASP. She worked hard to make sure she was known as more than just the tall woman pilot. She made trips the other WASPs wouldn't, and she made her trips quickly. She was courteous to the enlisted men, and the commanders liked that she ignored their pilots' advances.

Bettie waited for the DC-10 to touch down on the runway at Espritos Marcos. She'd caught a ride home from her latest assignment, and was looking forward to a shower and a nap. As soon as the plane came to a halt, she was at the door, waiting for it to be opened. It was, and outside, a corporal waited impatiently.

"Orders for you, Pilot." He offered her the piece of paper in his hand. "A reassignment for you."

Bettie scanned the paper. She was being moved to Vella La Cava, to be her permanent base for the foreseeable future. She tucked the paper into the pocket of her flight suit and allowed the corporal to hand her down out of the plane. Funny how no one bothered to do that when she flew the damn thing.

She had two hours to gather her things before catching the supply plane to La Cava. She was excited to spend time with her brother again, but she wasn't looking forward to seeing the pilots again. Especially that Lieutenant Wiley. She bristled a bit at the thought of him. Who was he to make fun of how she looked? The thought never crossed her mind that perhaps he'd simply spoken thoughtlessly, as young men were apt to do.

Two hours later, Bettie was bumping along in the back of yet another DC-10. Her feet were braced on the crate across from her, and she pressed her back against the bulkhead, trying to keep the heavy wooden boxes from crushing her in the turbulent flight. She wanted to shout at the pilot to take them up higher and get them out of the pocket they were stuck in, but he wouldn't have heard her anyways. She settled in for the hour and a half flight, letting out a resigned sigh.

* * *

"All right, all right, Hutch!" Greg snapped at his mechanic, who was pacing the operations shack. "I got her assigned to here. She'll be here when she gets here. I don't write up the orders."

The mechanic let out a gleeful whoop and hurried back to his job at the strip. Boyington rubbed his eyes. He'd been happy with Hutch's work while his little sister was here, but once she was gone, He noticed that the younger man had seemed more on edge, and his work was slipping a bit. After some prying, he found the source of the problem.

"I just don't know, Pappy. I don't want her up in those planes. The mechanics on Espritos aren't all that great. What if she has a failure?"

So, Boyington pulled what few strings he had, and with a little luck and a call to General Moore, he'd gotten Bettie assigned to La Cava, and Hutch was almost back to his normal self. Her job at VMF-214 was to fly test runs. Nice and close to the island, and then he didn't have to send his pilots up over and over to sort out problems with their birds when Hutch was trying to fix them. Having another pilot on the island might be a good thing. She wasn't a hot head like his boys, so he could trust her to fly to Espritos Marcosand handle that end of their black market network without getting arrested.

The major wondered where he was going to put her. Washing Machine Charlie had managed to strafe the hell out of the guest tent in her absence, and what options he had left involved putting her up with the rest of the pilots. Hell, he supposed, he could put her in the Sheep Pen if he had to until he figured something out.

* * *

With a hard bump and another smaller bump, the supply plane landed and taxied to a stop. Bettie tried to right some of the crates around her that had become tossed in flight so she could get out without crawling over them, but gave up when she noticed that the pilot and copilot chatted while waiting for the infantrymen to unload the plane and clear the exit. She supposed she'd just get carried out and dumped unceremoniously onto the pile of crates, like the rest of the drums of oil and fuel and crates of provisions and parts. She could hear the lock on the door click as it was opened, and the dim interior of the plane was illuminated.

Bettie was quickly hustled out as fast as they could unload the plane, and her bag landed with a _whump!_ beside her on the runway. She cleared out of the loading area, for fear that they'd throw a fifty-gallon drum of something out after her also. Her first stop needed to be to see Major Boyington. She picked up her bag and waved at Hutch, hard at work on the Corsairs. He threw her a half-assed salute, wrench in hand, before returning to his job. If she was stationed here, they could see each other later. Bettie set off towards camp to report her arrival.

She found Boyington in the operations shack, listening to the radio, headphones over his ears. He glanced at Bettie when she entered, and she set her bag down and leaned against the table to wait. After a few minutes, Boyington signed off and removed the headphones.

"Hello, Hutchinson." He greeted her, hanging the headphones back up on the radio. "Glad to see you made it here safe."

"The supply pilots tried their hardest to smash me into a more convenient size with your supplies, but alas, they couldn't." She quipped. Boyington couldn't suppress a grin.

"Yeah, but then we wouldn't be the base of the tallest WASP in the service. Just the flattest." Greg joked back. "Anyways, I have some good news, and some bad news. The good news is, you'll be working for Hutch. Flying test runs, maybe supply runs."

Boyington paused, deciding how to tell her that what was supposed to be her tent had been destroyed, "The bad news is, the guest tent that you were supposed to be bunked in got strafed a few days ago by our friendly, local Tojo. So I have a spare bunk with my executive officer, since his wingman well…" His voice grew quiet, "Well, Air-Sea Rescue hasn't found him and it's been near a week."

Bettie glanced downwards in respect for the unit's loss. She understood that fighter pilots had strong bonds with their wingmen, whether they intended to or not.

Boyington continued, "I've already cleared it with him. Or you can pitch camp in the Sheep Pen, but I can't guarantee you'll get much privacy in there."

When Boyington had approached Gutterman with the idea of letting Bettie stay with him, he was hesitant. After all, Gutterman was still sore about the loss of his wingman, and living with a woman—a girl, really—did not seem like something that would have appealed to the captain. Surprisingly, Gutterman agreed. Or rather, expressed his apathy to the whole thing, "So long as she keeps her stuff on her side and her girlie things outta my sight, I don't give a damn." Boyington had taken that as a yes.

Bettie frowned slightly as she weighed her options. Neither was ideal, or even comfortable. She lived with other women on Espritos Marcos, which, while she hadn't enjoyed the girlish chatter and assortment of feminine clothing items strewn around, was better than living with a college boy. But on the other hand, trying to sleep through drunken carousing in the Sheep Pen didn't sound remotely pleasant, either. Her frown grew a little more. "I suppose that I would prefer living with Captain… Guzman, was it? I'd rather live with one man than the entire squadron." She finally answered.

"Gutterman. Jim Gutterman." The major corrected her, "I'll let him know. You're welcome to leave your things here, and I'll have them moved to your tent after I've let Jim know. I'm sure your anxious to go pester my mechanic."

He waved her towards the door of the tent, and she couldn't help but grin. "Quite."

"Just don't keep him from my planes, Pilot!" He called after her retreating form.

* * *

"You won't be… untoward, would you?" Boyington asked Gutterman. He was breaking the news to the younger man about his new roommate. The other seemed uninterested, reading a magazine from home as he sprawled on his cot.

Gutterman lowered his issue of _Time_ and looked at his commanding officer over the top, raising an eyebrow. "Pappy, that girl reminds me of a horse I had growing up. Same nose, same gangly legs." He resumed reading, "I wouldn't make a move towards her if she was the last woman on earth."

The answer seemed to satisfy Boyington, and he left the captain to his reading. He hesitated outside the tent, before sticking his head back in. "Captain? Her bags are in the operations shack. Fetch them, would you?" He flashed a winning grin before leaving for good.

* * *

Bettie was resting in the shade of a wing, watching Hutch work. He'd declined her offer of help, saying she should rest an afternoon before getting put to work. So she nibbled on a Hershey's Tropical bar and watched.

"You know, these aren't half bad." She mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate. "Weird that they don't melt, though."

She peeled the brown and white patterned wrapped down a little further as she chewed. "Can you imagine these in the States? No more melted chocolate in your pocket. Even Flint doesn't get hot enough to melt them."

Hutch grunted in reply and let out a low string of curses. Bettie ignored them, knowing they were directed at no one in general. Meatball, the squadron's mascot, came to her, whining and pawing at her knee. He wanted to try her treat.

"No, Meatball." She scolded. "Chocolate's bad for dogs. Don't beg." Meatball groaned and flopped onto the dust next to her. He lifted a back leg hopefully, exposing his belly for her to rub. Bettie obliged, idly petting the dog as she enjoyed her candy bar.

Hutch climbed down from the Corsair he was working on and sat heavily next to Bettie for a break. He looked over at Meatball, whose eyes were closed in pleasure and was grinning a big doggy grin. He didn't mind Hutch's scoffing at all. The mechanic lit up a cigarette, enjoying a puff or two before offering it to Bettie. She handed him the chocolate to free up a hand for the cigarette, since Meatball was enjoying his belly rub so much.

"So, how's La Cava?" She inquired through a cloud of smoke. Hutch took the cigarette back, and took a drag before answering,

"S'okay. Lost a pilot about a week ago. Engine failure." He cringed slightly. While he'd never be blamed for the failure, since Boyington knew that Hutch did everything humanly possible to keep them flying, he couldn't help but feel he'd missed something. Bettie patted his knee sympathetically.

"Gutterman's wingman?"

"Yeah. Bradshaw. He was new here. Nice guy." Hutch nodded solemnly. Bradshaw had always expressed his gratitude towards the sergeant for his work, even though his job was to fly the plane and Hutch's was to fix it. But Hutch appreciated it, nonetheless.

"I've got his bunk." Bettie confided after a moment of silence. "Strange, sleeping in a dead man's bed. Only gone a week, and here I am, taking over his cot. What a weird thing war is."

Her brother's head bobbed some more. No one could ever say that war wasn't strange. Men sending boys to die for differences in beliefs. Those same boys, churned out like parts out of a machine, one falls, another in his place in a blink of an eye, with no mention of the fallen. Hutch sucked on a corner of the candy bar that he'd broken off. He'd never been one for chocolate, but Bettie was crazy about it. Really, she loved all sweets. He handed her the bar back.

"I've gotta get back to work."

Bettie wandered back to camp with the bull terrier on her heels. She didn't know which tent was supposed to be hers. She supposed she should have asked Boyington. Maybe she could find someone to help her. She looked around, but in the heat of the day, there was not a living soul in sight. She sighed softly, before knocking on the support post of the nearest tent. Hopefully whoever it belonged to was home.

* * *

T.J. was dozing when he heard a rap on the wooden beam that framed their door. He rolled over, ignoring the sound, leaving his tent mate to deal with it. On the other cot, Casey was writing a letter to his mother when the sound made him jump, blotching his letter with ink.

"Yeah?" He called out, frustration lacing his tone. Bettie was a bit taken a back.

"Um, I uh-" She poked her head in the opening. The flap that served as a door had been drawn back to let in any semblance of a breeze. "I was wondering if you knew where I could find Captain Gutterman's tent?"

"Go two tents down that way." Casey pointed with his pen, not bothering to look up from his letter. "It'll be there."

"Thanks." Bettie said hesitantly. What was with these pilots? Didn't they learn any manners?

T.J. bolted upright, but she was already gone. "Was that Bettie?!" He asked Casey excitedly.

Casey looked up in confusion, "Who?"

"Bettie. Bettie Hutchinson. Hutch's sister, the WASP." T.J. explained, running his hand through his hair to straighten it. He only succeeded in making it stick up in all directions like a wild man.

"I guess so…" To be honest, Casey hadn't even looked. But if she was a woman on this island, she was either the WASP that Boyington had gotten stationed here, or a nurse. And all the nurses knew just where Jim's tent was.

Why was she looking for Gutterman's tent? T.J. couldn't help but wonder what she wanted with him. A million and one thoughts flickered through his mind. He hoped she wasn't _interested_ in Gutterman! He didn't even think she was pretty! Wiley frowned and punched his flat pillow into a still flat, but more satisfying shape. What if Gutterman was actually interested in her? T.J. didn't like that thought one bit.

* * *

**Sorry for the short chapter! I'm leaving for a week for a wedding and I wanted to update before I left (Just for you, Becks1964!). See you all soon!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you all for the kind words and well wishes! I didn't realize that too many were reading, but I really, really appreciate your kind words! 3 I'm back from the wedding from hell and ready to get going again! Hang on!**

Gutterman grumbled to himself to whole time he went to go get Bettie's luggage. He didn't understand why Boyington had stuck _him_ with the female pilot, but he knew arguing would do no good. Pappy did what Pappy did, and as second in command, Jim knew that it was a lost cause to argue. He just hoped she was a mousey girl and not a sharp-tongued, easily upset girl. Honestly, he didn't see why she couldn't stay with Hutch. They were family after all!

Still grumbling, he tossed Bettie's bags onto the vacated cot across from his and flopped down on his own to resume his reading. Not a minute had gone by before he was interrupted yet again by a timid knock. "What?" He drawled, exasperation riding that one syllable. A head, then shoulders and a torso entered the tent.

"Oh! Hello, Captain. I did find the right tent." Bettie said cheerfully, stepping inside. Her height had her heavily stooped once inside, but she flashed a friendly grin towards the other pilot. She didn't like him, but it wouldn't hurt for him to like her.

"A-yep." Gutterman muttered, before dismissing her for his magazine. He'd read the same page three times already.

Bettie was a bit taken aback at how he ignored her, but she resolved to not show it. She wasn't sure of how to handle the situation she'd been placed in, but she was sure acting like a whiney girl wasn't it. She set to storing her few things neatly in the crates that served as a dresser. Her private things she stored in her suitcase, which she then slid under her bed. Hopefully, her new bunkmate wasn't the kind to snoop.

She sat slowly on her bed, looking over at her new roommate. She didn't quite know what to do with herself. Hutch had shooed her from the strip, since he needed to work, and he didn't need her to fly a test run yet, and to be honest, she was distracting him. Gutterman was still steadfastly ignoring her, so he'd probably be no good for entertainment. She shifted a little on the flimsy bed as she thought. She supposed she could explore the camp some. It might not hurt to know what else was there besides her tent, Hutch's tent, and the landing strip. But if she went out, she realized that most likely, she'd encounter a pilot or two. That didn't sound at all appealing, considering the reputation held by Boyington's crew. Finally, after chiding herself that she couldn't hide from every man on the island forever, she left the tent. Gutterman didn't even move.

Bettie shielded her eyes from the bright tropical sunlight, blinking as they adjusted to the light. She looked up and down the row of tents, but not a soul was in sight, except Meatball, who'd followed her as far as a shady spot before collapsing into it. He saw the girl with the candy and he got back to his paws, wagging his tail expectantly. She set off in the opposite direction, and the dog trailed behind her, hoping she'd give him some attention.

Bettie had a list of things in her mind that she knew she would need to find. The first was the privy. She found it on the edge of the camp—a lean-to with a crude crescent moon cut out of the door. Nearby was the showers, or what she assumed was the shower. It was really a few boards nailed to the legs of a water tower to form a stall. While the water most likely wouldn't be hot, Bettie bet that the tropical heat would warm the water just enough that it wasn't cool and refreshing, but also not satisfyingly hot. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her of another important thing to find—the mess hall.

She made her way back to camp, and meandered towards the end where the Sheep Pen, Op Shack, and she was sure the other common areas were grouped. One of the tents had a wooden sign staked outside which declared "Mess Hall," however, Bettie found it to be empty. She decided to find out who was on KP Duty and see when lunch normally was served.

* * *

T.J. grumbled to himself as he stirred the steaming pot of beans on the stove. KP was his least favorite duty that was assigned. It was hot and he didn't know how to cook and everyone always complained about the food anyways. He didn't know why he bothered trying to fix up what they were given for rations. No one appreciated his efforts at all. He had burned some of the freeze-dried chicken when he'd tried frying it that one time, sure, but they could at least say thanks for _trying_ to improve the food, he thought.

Much to his surprise and delight, a figure hesitantly appeared around the corner of the mess tent, looking around like she was lost. He couldn't suppress a friendly grin when her gaze turned to him. He didn't notice her slight cringe when she realized that he was the person she'd been looking for.

"Hiya!" He greeted her enthusiastically. The pot of beans boiled over and hissed and popped as he hurried to lower the heat. He blushed profusely as he did.

She returned his greeting less than cheerfully. She looked between him and the collection of steaming pots on the stove top. "I take it that lunch will be soon?" She asked, still lingering at a distance. She really didn't want to see him.

"Maybe about ten more minutes." He answered her, stirring. "Say, why don't you grab a seat and keep a guy company 'til it's done. That is, if you have nothing else to do. I noticed you were wandering." He looked at her hopefully. He'd been almost as excited as Hutch was when he heard she was supposed to be stationed here, except he hid it carefully. It wasn't worth the heckling he'd get for it.

Bettie froze, wondering how she could possibly escape politely. Her thoughts ran through her mind at lightening speed, as she weighed her options. She realized that not a single answer she had would excuse her without being obviously made up. Resigned, she slowly sat on a nearby crate labeled "M.R.E. RATIONS" in black stenciled letters. "Sure." She said, trying to sound casual.

T.J. grinned delightedly. "You know, I've just been flying a mission over Munda. The flak up there, you wouldn't believe it! It reminds me of this one time…" His voice trailed off as Bettie stopped paying attention. He'd continued to ramble on about glorified exploits in the skies over the South Pacific. Pilots. All the same. Once they got a girl listening to them, all they wanted to do was talk about their fights and their kills and their acrobatic skills. She'd flown over Munda. There wasn't much left of it after the bombers had destroyed the Japanese encampment there. Marine pilots tended to forget that she too had her wings, even if they were silver instead of brass.

To T.J. though, her occasional nods and mm-hmms only reinforced that she was listening to his tall tales. Sure, he exaggerated a bit, but who didn't? He was interrupted by a burning smell and he swore and fumbled the gas on the stove off. "I guess lunch is ready!" He chuckled, picking up one of the pots to carry it into the mess tent. Bettie followed him with the other pot. All she wanted was to eat and get out of there! Unfortunately for her, though, the mess tent was already filled, as the scent of burnt food wafted through the camp, signaling the meal better than any announcement or dinner bell.

The chatter ceased as she entered, and a dozen pairs of eyes drilled into her as she moved after T.J., towards the back of the tent where the food would be served. She kept her head down as se set down the pot, wishing she could be anywhere but where she was at the moment. No one made a move though, even after the food had been set down. She wondered why for a brief second before T.J. handed her a tin plate of… food? on a tray, and set a biscuit next to the plate.

"Ladies first!"

Bettie mumbled a hurried thank you and went to sit as close the tent door as she could. All the better for a quick escape. Much to her chagrin, a tall, dark-haired pilot squeezed his way onto the end of her bench, forcing her to shift down further.

"Bob Anderson." He greeted her, offering her a handshake. She shook his hand, and replied,

"Bettie Hutchinson. Pleasure." Her tone said that it was in fact, anything but a pleasure to meet him, but he ignored it.

On her other side, a shorter, blond-haired pilot with a boyish grin shoved his way in. "Remember me, Bettie? Bobby Boyle." He bumped her with a shoulder and she struggled to remember him. He'd been the one to get her when her first plane off La Cava had come, all those weeks ago.

"Oh, Bobby. Hello. It's good to see you."

All around her, pilots piled in, introducing themselves and shaking her hand. Her head whirled trying to match names to faces and keep up. They all knew who she was, and seemed quite eager to introduce themselves.

"We'd wondered when we were going to see you around!" One pilot teased. She thought his name may have been French, but she wasn't too sure at this point.

"Yeah! We thought you didn't like us or something. Glad to see you out and about!" Another added. Casey. That one was named Casey. _Well that's because I don't._ She thought, but she kept it to herself.

"Well I just got here a few hours ago!" She protested. "A girl needs some time to recover after flying a mission, and catching two supply planes here!"

There was laughter as the men dug in to what looked like atrocious food, and the normal patter of conversation and complaints directed at T.J. ensued. Bettie tried to eat, but as hungry as she was, it was difficult to stomach. After she'd done what she'd judged to do a decent job cleaning her plate, she stood up to go.

"Going so soon?" Gutterman asked, raising one eyebrow. His new tentmate sure was skittish. Before Bettie could reply, there was a general cry of protest.

"The Sheep Pen! You have to come have a drink at the Sheep Pen!" Someone called out.

"But it's only noon!" She gasped in shock. Surely they didn't drink at noon!

"It's five o'clock yesterday evening in Denver!" Casey grinned.

"Denver! We drink!" Came the chorus of voices. Bettie was carried out the tent door by the crowd, who prodded and pulled her along.

T.J. was left behind to clean up the mess. He changed his mind. Cooking wasn't the worst part of KP duty. It was dishes.

* * *

In the Sheep Pen, Bettie was herded to the bar, where Anderson now presided. "What'll it be? We have scotch, beer, and scotch. Anything for the young lady?" He leaned forward on the bar, his arms sloping to his hands, which he'd rested far apart on the bar and his shoulders lifting as he leaned on his hands.

"Scotch." She ordered. She wasn't particularly fond of it, but it was better than beer. There was a collective, "Oooh…" from the gathered pilots as Anderson slid a glass filled halfway with the amber liquid in front of her.

"For someone who doesn't drink, you sure go for it." Boyle noted, taking a beer from Anderson.

"I didn't say I don't drink," Bettie said lightly, taking a sip. "I just don't tend to drink at noon."

"How old are you, anyways?" French—she was pretty sure it was French now—asked, taking the seat next to her at the bar.

"Eighteen." She answered hesitantly. She knew that none of the pilots except Boyington were much older than twenty, twenty-one years old. The brass had figured out pilots were the best between eighteen and twenty-one. But still, she was young, and she knew that. She regretted even coming out. She knew they'd treat her differently because of her age.

"Really? So's Casey." French asked, giving the tall, blonde boy a shove.

"Hey!" Casey complained, "I'll be nineteen next month!"

Bettie raised her glass slightly in a toast to him, before finishing off her drink. Maybe now she could make her escape. "Well gentlemen, thank you for the drink, but I really should go see if Hutch needs me." She began to stand, but hands on her shoulders pushed her back down onto her stool.

"Twenty-four hours from bottle to throttle, Pilot!" Boyle sang out gleefully, motioning for Anderson to pour her another drink.

"Really, Bobby. I'm twice your size. One drink of watered down scotch is hardly going to do me in." She shook her head.

In high school, long after her dad had left the family and her mom was off with her latest meal ticket, leaving Hutch to look after Bettie, she'd learned to drink. Like all her bad habits, she'd learned them from her older brother. He didn't really care, it seemed, if she drank. If you'd asked him, he'd have told you that if he'd made a fuss, she'd have gone out to drink, rather than stay where he could keep an eye on her. So he never said anything. Bettie knew from experience however, that a single drink was nowhere near enough to affect someone her size for very long.

"Well how about two?" Boyle pressed another drink into her hand. She set it back down on the bar and stood once more.

"Really, I have work to do. As do you all. Thank you, but I must be going." She said firmly, pushing through the crowd of men towards the door. "You should be ashamed of yourselves." She said over her shoulder, once she'd reached the door.

The Black Sheep were very rarely ashamed of themselves, though, and quickly dispelled the lingering air of displeasure with a round of drinks and soon music from the jukebox and the shrieks of Bonzai the crow filled the room.

* * *

At the landing strip, Bettie sulked in the shade of the nearby mechanic's tent as she watched Hutch work. He could sense her foul mood radiating off her from there, but he didn't bother to ask what had gotten her bent out of shape. The pilots, he imagined. She was living with the rest of them, so he was sure they'd already managed to get on her nerves. Not that he was happy about it either, as a protective older brother. He'd rather she stay with him, but he shared his tent with several other enlisted men, and she was treated as an officer, and quite simply, officers and enlisted men didn't mix.

"Well don't sit there grumbling!" He finally snapped at her, "Go change T.J.'s mag points, would ya? Sheesh, Stretch!"

She slunk off to do his bidding, her face coloring slightly under his reproach. It wasn't fair of her to be angry around him, he didn't do anything to deserve it. She just couldn't help it. Those damned pilots were so cocky and self-righteous and she just couldn't stand them. Who were they to tell her to have another drink. She'd been a good sport about the first one that she didn't want, but why'd they have to push?

She swore a blue-streak under her breath as she changed the mag points on the Corsair with T.J.'s name stenciled on. She was curious about the five American flag decals it carried, but not enough to ask him. She was glad that the base had gotten an new shipment of mag points for the Corsairs, since it made the job that much easier when she wasn't modifying ones from the DC-10.

She pulled her head out from under the cowl covering the engine and wiped her forehead with the back of her arm, before her eyes landed on T.J., standing below her, watching her work on his plane. The front of his olive drab tee shirt was still wet from washing that day's dishes and his mouth was open to say something to her, but she saw red.

"You!" She shrieked. "You with your goddamn rich mix. You keep ruining your mag points! We don't have enough supplies as is and you go through them like nothing!"

His eyes widened in alarm as he dodged the wrench she hurled at him, followed by a screwdriver, and other miscellaneous tools in her reach. "Why can't you just fly like a normal human being?! Why do you have to keep flying with this shit?!"

She dropped off the wing of the plane with a thud on the packed earth and stormed away, shoving past him. T.J. turned in bewilderment to Hutch, who'd watched the explosion with his hands held out in a plea. "What did I do?"

Hutch shook his head and returned to his work. "It's not you, it's just her. But she's right-you do need to knock it off with that mixture of yours."

* * *

She continued to storm through the jungle, swatting leaves out of her way in her fury. She reached the beach where she plopped down and pried off her boots. She stuck her feet under the sand and wiggled her toes. Bettie tried to take a few deep breaths and calm down, but soon, wet, salty tears coursed down her face.

Maybe she was coming up to her time of the month or maybe it was the stress from all her missions over semi-captured territory and the needling of the pilots, but before she understood, she was sobbing her heart out. She wiped her nose on the back of her forearm, but it still flowed and she gave up, waiting for it to all stop.

Footsteps through the jungle startled her, and she struggled to wipe her face and calm her breathing, which came in sniffling hiccups. She hoped it was Hutch coming, and not anyone else. She'd rather die than have one of those Marine bastards see her a mess like this. Boyington sat beside her and leaned back casually.

"Beautiful today, isn't it?" He asked nonchalantly, casting her a glance. She sniffled and wiped her face on the hem of her shirt.

"Yeah." She croaked. "I don't know what… I don't know why I'm like this." She apologized, gesturing at herself, as if she had any control at the moment.

"It's just stress. I looked at your log. You've been flying every single day, sometimes two missions. You're just burnt out, that's all." He explained. She'd seemed a little on edge, but then again, he'd never seen her not looking that way. Still, out of curiosity, he'd checked her logs to see what she'd been up to. What he'd seen had made him decide that she needed a break. He'd gone looking for her to tell her, and had found a very quiet Hutch and T.J. at the strip, picking up the array of tools that seemed to have been thrown to the ground. It seemed his hunch was right about her being under stress.

"I'm grounding you for a few days-" He began, but she interrupted him,

"Oh, please no, don't!"

Boyington held up a finger so he could finish. "I'll instruct my pilots to leave you alone. You'll only have to deal with Gutterman, and even then, when he's off duty, he'll ignore you."

She gave him a small, but grateful smile. Her eyes were still a little watery and her nose was still running, but she looked a tiny bit better already. He tousled her hair before getting up. "Be back before dark."

**Phew! Thanks for all the well wishes on my test. It's over and I didn't do too bad! I'll try to update a wee bit faster, but no promises! Thanks for reading and reviewing. You're all amazing!**


	5. Chapter 5

**It turns out, I have hours to kill between classes since I'm basically living in the library. There's no homework really, yet, so I'm going to write!**

As it turned out, being grounded on Vella La Cava may have been the most boring thing Bettie had ever endured. Being grounded apparently meant that she couldn't help Hutch, even on the mechanical side of things, and not the flying side of them.

"No work!" He'd scolded her, shooing her away from the pile of tools she'd been eying. Boyington had given everyone on the island instructions that she was under no circumstances to work. She barely was able to wash her laundry without someone scolding her.

She'd ended up making the long walk to the other end of the island where the hospital lay. The nurses there were more than happy to have an extra hand doing the simple tasks like rolling bandages and folding linens. Besides, Bettie enjoyed spending a little time around women, even if they all had very little in common with her. She enjoyed small talk that didn't involve zeros, and the scent of shampoo instead of other dubious bodily odors that never seemed to bother anyone except her at the camp. The nurses were quite curious about her and her job, so Bettie spent much of her time at the hospital fielding questions. One of the younger girls, close to Bettie's age brought up the topic of living with a bunch of men.

"I just can't _imagine_ what it must be like living at that camp with all those pilots. Even if you have your own tent!" She squealed with a girlish giggle, like it was so scandalous.

Bettie stayed quiet for a moment, concentrating on her task, before looking up at the girl. Her dark eyes met the girl's blue eyes and she couldn't help but chuckle at the innocence she saw there.

"Then I bet you really couldn't imagine living at that camp without tour own tent."

There was a shocked gasp from several of the women and more turned several shades of red.

"You share a tent with them?!" One of them hissed, glancing around like it was a secret.

"Well, yes. Should I sleep outside? There's nowhere else for me." She shook her head. There was a difference between propriety and practicality, and they were living in a war zone. For her, the practicality of sleeping in a mosquito-free tent was much more alluring than the propriety of living away from the men. And really, she got the impression that Gutterman wouldn't be any more likely to make a move on her as he would a rock.

"That's not prop-" one of the older nurses began disapprovingly, but she was cut off by the same young nurse from before.

"Which one do you share a tent with?" She asked with a conspiratorial grin, leaning in towards Bettie as far as she could without toppling off of her seat.

"Captain Gutterman." Bettie jumped as one of the nurses turned and stormed angrily out of the room.

"She's sweet on him, that's all." The young nurse whispered.

"Oh." Bettie settled in her chair, "Maybe someone should tell her that he's not any happier about living with me than I am with him?"

"Myself, I think that Lieutenant Wiley is pretty cute." The young nurse winked, resuming the conversation like nothing had happened. "Or that young one—Lieutenant Casey. He comes around here sometimes to deliver messages from the camp and such. He's so shy though!"

Bettie shrugged. She really had no opinion on any of the pilot's looks. She wasn't too crazy about them in the first place, so she'd never really bothered to look to close. She supposed if she had to pick what she liked in a guy, tall would top the list, and possibly blond, or at least blue or green eyes. She really didn't know, though, and she secretly doubted she'd ever get lucky enough to have her choice in beaus.

The women continued to avidly discuss their favorites on the island, as well as those they had back home. Lockets and pictures were passed around and admired. Bettie smiled inwardly when she heard that one of the junior nurses, a very pretty little redhead, had been eying Hutch. She'd have to let him know.

* * *

"I just, I don't know Hutch. I don't get her at all. She's so… aloof, all the time! But just occasionally, she starts to let loose a little, but then she pulls back and leaves!" T.J. sighed. He'd thought that maybe Hutch could help him figure Bettie out. If anyone understood her, it had to be him. Hutch really wished he hadn't.

The sergeant was working peacefully, the sun warming his shirtless back, when the lieutenant had shown up. And now, it'd been twenty minutes of nonstop rattling while Hutch was trying to ignore him. Did T.J. honestly have no clue? Bettie was not the type of girl to be swept off her feet by overblown tales of gallantry. In fact, if T.J. managed to sweep Bettie off her feet at all, either metaphorically or literally, Hutch vowed he'd eat his grease-stained hat. Finally, he'd had enough.

"T.J.," Hutch sighed, leaning his forearms on the body of the aircraft and looking down at the blond, "Let me tell you something."

T.J. looked up eagerly, waiting to see what advice he would receive.

"Bettie is my sister…" Hutch paused again, enjoying making his superior officer squirm. His voice turned hard though, as he continued, "And if you even think for a moment that I'm going to tell you how to make her fall for you just so you can take her to bed like every nurse you've done that to, you're going to be in for a big ol' surprise. Now what the hell is wrong with you?!"

Wiley gawked up at Hutch before sputtering that _that_ wasn't his intentions at all! How on earth could he think that?!

"You stay away from her, T.J. Wiley. I mean it. She deserves a hell of a lot better than you."

Now that comment made T.J. see red. "And just what do you mean by that, _Sergeant_?"

"What I mean, _Lieutenant_, is that I have more'n half a mind to come down there and kick your sorry ass!"

"Well, then why don't you?" T.J. snarled

* * *

It took four pilots and Pappy's fists to break up the fight. Being restrained with their arms behind their backs didn't stop the two from jerking against the men holding them, trying to get free to keep fighting. Boyington stood between the two of them in case one did get loose.

"Now what the hell is going on?!" He bellowed. He was used to his officers fighting, and T.J. was quite frequently found doing so, but to find the normally unflappable Hutch sitting on top of the lieutenant and pounding him into the ground was not something Boyington ever expected to see.

Neither man answered, refusing to look away from the other. Finally, Hutch spat, "It's personal… sir."

"It's personal. Oh, it's personal! Now I see!" the major threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "Listen, you meatheads, I've seen how T.J. looks all starry eyed after your sister. I get it."

Greg looked down and stuck his hands in his pockets for a moment while he thought.

"Hutch, I'm not going to do anything about it this time." He looked up, resting his gaze on the young mechanic, who'd finally stopped struggling to get free. He could see now that the usual, rational Hutch was back, and terrified. "This is the first time you've ever done anything like this. And honestly, you're the best mechanic in the South Pacific and I need you to work." Relief watched over Hutch's face as he heard Boyington's decision.

Boyington continued in a softer tone. "You will be confined to quarters when you aren't working, and when you are working, you are not to leave the strip. You will be accompanied by an officer any time you leave either of those two places."

He turned to T.J., "You, confined to quarters, grounded, O-Club privileges denied."

Boyington began to walk away, but he paused and looked back. "No one breathes a word of this under threat of court-martial. Miss Hutchinson is not to know."

Gutterman, who was one of the pilots holding back Hutch, snarled, "Well, you heard Pappy. Let's get 'em back to where they belong."

As the two men were dragged off to their respective areas, Gutterman couldn't help but mutter to the mechanic, "What the hell's gotten into you?! You realize the punishment for that is death, right?! She wouldn't give him the time of day, but if the firing squad doesn't kill you for that, she would."

* * *

When Bettie arrived back at camp, something wasn't right, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Everyone scurried away as she approached, and none of the pilots would look her in the face. Frustrated that things at camp were back to weird again, she decided that she would hang out at the strip and see if she couldn't pester her brother into letting her do something… _anything_.

When she arrived, Hutch was nowhere to be found. She assumed that was a good thing, which meant he was getting some much-needed rest. She returned to camp, veering towards the end where all the enlisted men had their tents pitched, and found his. She knocked, just in case his tent mates were there or someone was changing. She preferred to wait to be told to come in than to encounter something she'd rather not have seen. Her brother's muffled voice answered, "Yeah?"

She stepped in and froze upon seeing him. "What… what happened to your face?!"

"I uh, well… I smacked it on the fuselage of one of the Corsairs." He quickly lied. "Wasn't paying attention, and I stepped right off the edge of the wing and fell."

That was something that could happen to anyone, he supposed. Just a misstep. Happened even to the best. His nose was broken and he was sporting two shiners, but that didn't necessarily indicate that he'd been fighting, in his opinion.

"Oh…" Bettie murmured. "Gotta be careful." She didn't press the matter any, because she trusted him not to lie to her. He never had before. Usually, if anything, he was brutally honest with her.

Hutch sat up and shifted on his cot to make space for her to sit, and Bettie sat next to him, pulling her legs up to her chest, and leaning her head on his shoulder. "Hutch, I'm so _bored_!" She complained, with a slight pout. She tried to act mature, but she still was only a girl. Sometimes if felt good to act her age.

Hutch chuckled and slung his arm around her shoulders, squeezing her to his side. "I know. Grounding is no fun. You're supposed to be relaxing, though, not going into a frenzy because you can't work. Silly Stretch."

She made a face at him, wrinkling up her nose and crossing her eyes. "No work! Bettie go relax!" She said in a silly voice, mimicking what he'd been repeating for days. He covered her face with a hand and pushed her away playfully.

"Oh hush. You're on a tropical island in the middle of the South Pacific, and instead of going to the beach and getting a tan like a normal girl, you're trying to work on greasy engines all night." He scolded her gently, "Have you even gone down to the beach, yet?"

She wiggled a little, chewing on her lip. She'd only been down one time, and that was after her outburst at the strip. "Once."

"Only once?! Even I've been down to the beach more than that!" He exclaimed. He may have been one of the busiest guys on the island, but he still found time to take advantage of living on an island.

"Well, why don't you take me, then? You're not working, no one else is flying today, so you won't have to work very soon…" She turned to him with puppy dog eyes, "Please, Hutch? Take me to the beach?"

"Okay, okay!" He laughed. It was good to see her acting playfully, and letting her guard down. "Why don't you go get your swimsuit, and send Pappy over here. I need to check and make sure he won't need me today, okay?"

"Okay!" Bettie laughed, bounding out the door. She was excited to spend time with her brother doing something that wasn't work. She didn't even question why he couldn't just go see the Major himself.

She had to pass by Boyington's tent to get to her own, so she paused to knock on the pole, before sticking her head in. "Hiya, Pappy. Hutch asked me if I could see if you could stop by his tent really quick. He needed to ask you if you needed him today."

Now that she said it, it did seem a bit odd that he'd asked her, but who knows what military protocols were in place at this point. Boyington, who had been reading a book, looked up at her.

"Why's he asking?" Greg knew that Hutch couldn't leave his tent without an officer, as per his orders, but he was wondering where it was that he wanted to go that he needed permission.

"Oh," Bettie's enthusiasm slacked a bit. She hoped that he would let them go. "He was going to take me to the beach, since the planes are all ready and there's no missions today…" She trailed off, looking hopefully at the major, who was struggling to sit up. Meatball was sprawled across him, and had no intention of moving.

Greg figured that if Hutch was with Bettie, he'd be likely to stay out of trouble. He had specified an officer, though… Maybe he'd find his way down to the lagoon that covered one side of Vella la Cava in soft white sand with his book and his dog in a little while.

"Sure. He's free to go. Enjoy it." He agreed, before giving up the struggle against Meatball, and settling back down.

* * *

"Out!" Bettie announced to Gutterman as she entered the tent. "I've got to change."

Gutterman didn't even bother to look up from his magazine, the front of which was graced by Lauren Bacall. "Not on your life. You can go change somewhere else."

She let out a frustrated grunt and yanked her duffle out from under her bed, rifling through it until she pulled out a little red one-piece suit. "Fine, you can stay. Just don't look!"

"Darlin', you haven't got anything I'd want to look at." Gutterman drawled, still reading.

She made a face at him over her shoulder as she unbuttoned her uniform shirt. "It's just as much my tent as it is yours."

"That may be true, darlin', but you don't see me demanding you to leave every time I need to change." He continued patiently. Living with her had definitely been a learning experience for him. Maybe when he went home, if he ever went home, he'd understand his own little sisters better.

A moment later, Bettie had managed to shimmy herself into her swimsuit, and she pulled her raggedy, stained flight suit on over it to cover up. She definitely was _not_ going to stroll through camp in nothing but her swimsuit. On her way out of the tent, she paused and looked at Gutterman. "You really didn't look, right?"

Finally he set down his magazine. "Hard as it may be to believe, even a beastly Marine pilot like me can have manners enough to not look when asked not to."

She sighed and smiled at him in relief as she turned to go. "The red is awful cute though!" He called after her. Mortified, she hurried away to Hutch's tent.

* * *

At the beach, Bettie was having a ball splashing in the warm waters. She was amazed at the clarity of the water, and she could see bright little fish darting between her feet. She'd never seen water so clean in her life, or so warm. She loved it. Hutch watched from the shore, smiling as she waved at him to come in.

"C'mon!" She coaxed, "It's so nice and warm." He shook his head no, preferring to sit and enjoy the warm sand over go in the water. "Please?" She pouted.

He laughed and waded in after her, about waist deep. She was right, it was quite warm today. "Okay, fine, I came in." He splashed water her way. She squealed and splashed at him, beginning a splashing war between the two of them.

* * *

Boyington, Meatball, and the other officers arrived just in time to witness Hutch scoop his sister out of the water, lift her overhead, and hurl her out into the ocean.

She shrieked, "No, no, no, no, no! Hutch, don't!" As he did, but she bobbed back to the surface laughing. Her hair had come out of its traditional braid and floated around her shoulders in the water.

The men on the shore hooted and hollered at the pair for their antics, and Meatball took one look at Bettie and dashed into the water, paddling determinedly towards her.

"Meatball! Meatball, get back here!" Greg called, stripping off his shirt to go in after the dog.

Bettie swam towards the dog and scooped him up out of the water. "Hey, Meatball!" She giggled, as he proceeded to lick the saltwater off her face joyously. She waded back with the dog in her arms, before depositing him on the shore. "Here, Pappy. All safe."

Bettie sat in the sand beside the creature, snuggling him. "Silly pooch." Meatball looked up at Greg and grinned his doggy grin, almost saying, _See Dad? Look who I've got!_

"Traitor." Greg scolded Meatball, "I thought you only loved me."

The dog wagged his stumpy tail and leaned more heavily on Bettie. "Sorry, Major. I think you've lost your pal!" She giggled.

Some of the Black Sheep had started a volleyball game further down the beach, while other had, not to Bettie's surprise, pulled out a bottle of scotch and were passing it around as they talked and joked. Hutch was still out in the water, and had been joined by Casey and Anderson. Suspiciously absent though, was T.J.

"Pappy, where's T.J.? He's the only one not here." She asked, shading her eyes as she looked up. Maybe someone would explain to her what the tension was in the camp that she felt. She had an idea it had to do with T.J., and with the way everyone was looking at her, she began to get the idea she was unwittingly involved.

Suddenly Greg looked very, very uncomfortable. So it wasn't just her, there really was something going on in the camp. "He's got duty today. He's not supposed to leave camp." Boyington explained, hoping that was enough for her. Technically, the officer heading guard duty wasn't supposed to leave camp, but the Black Sheep rarely followed that rule. Bettie wasn't satisfied with the answer, but she wasn't going to press the issue further.

* * *

A not-so-sober crew of Black Sheep stumbled their way into camp much later that night, after a bonfire on the beach and several more bottles of whisky. Even Hutch, who normally had a policy against drinking with officers, was a little flushed. Bettie had an arm around Casey's shoulders and another around Gutterman's, and they both supported her back to camp. She'd had a little too much, she'd realize in the morning, but for now, she was walking on her own decently well, except for a little wobbling. Mostly, she was just giggly.

The Black Sheep were definitely enjoying their normally uptight WASP's joyful chatter and laughter. She was really quite likable, when she dropped her guard. Around the campfire, she'd shared stories with them from her flight school, and they were quite surprised to find that hers and theirs only differed very slightly. She also shared about the attitude back in the States toward girls like her, who attended flight schools. They were seen as lose, immoral, and weak-willed by many. It began to get a little clearer why she often was so damn touchy about her flying.

As the merry group disbanded, Pappy escorted Hutch back to his tent, making conversation with him about mechanical things so that his departure with Hutch didn't seem suspicious to Bettie. Bettie, however, was in no shape to be suspicious of anything. She, Casey, and Gutterman were slowly wobbling their way toward their own bunks. Out of the trio, Bettie was the most stable. They reached Casey and T.J.'s tent first, and Casey left for his bunk.

Inside, T.J. heard Bettie's tipsy giggles as she bid his roommate a good night, and that familiar pit in his stomach opened up. He punched his pillow into shape and rolled over, jealously thinking how he could have been there that night, talking with her, if Hutch hadn't started that fight. He didn't even want to acknowledge his guilt in the fight. He just would rather blame Hutch. The voices faded away as Gutterman and Bettie continued towards their own tent, Gutterman's arm around her waist and hers around his shoulders, since she was the taller of the pair.

Once safely in their tent, Jim stripped down to his shorts and collapsed onto his cot, making sure to roll over so Bettie had privacy to change. She peeled off her damp suit and clipped it to the clothesline that she had strung on her side of the tent, before changing into a nightgown. Her long hair was a mess from the waves, and she knew she'd have to deal with it that night, instead of in the morning. Bettie found her comb in her supply crate shelves and sat on her cot, legs tucked under her as she set to work on her hair, humming softly.

Gutterman rolled over at the noise of her humming and watched her quietly for a moment as she picked the tangles out of her waist-length hair. He sort of liked that about her—she wore her hair long and unstyled and she never wore makeup. She wasn't as fussy as the nurses, even though she was nowhere near fashionable. But it was nice to meet a girl that had more on her mind than her looks. After a moment of watching, he sleepily mumbled,

"My little sisters would say you look like a mermaid right now."

Bettie jumped slightly. She'd thought that he was asleep. "You have sisters?"

"Yeah." He rubbed his eyes and rolled onto his back. "They're ten and twelve. They still love fairytales."

While at war, it was easy to forget that everyone around her had families. Some were the oldest, some were the youngest. Some were the only boy, and some said prayers at night for their brothers stationed elsewhere in the world. Bettie combed through the last tangle, and deftly braided her hair into a single braid down her back. She extinguished the lantern and lay down.

"Night, Bettie." Came Jim's voice from the darkness.

"Good night, Jim."

* * *

All his sheep safely in their bunks, Pappy climbed up into his bird, and soon was winging towards Espritos Marcos, summoned by top-secret orders.

**Hey, I just wanted to let you all know that my lovely new friend Becks1964 has a new fic called "Pappy Meets a Lady Pilot" that she's just started. I think it is definitely worth a read!**

**Also, here is a piece of fanart I found on tumblr that had me cracking up. Be warned that it's a little NSFW (the girl in it is pretty much falling out of her top, nose-art style), but the pilot's face in the background... I just can't look at him without laughing. I think the guys would rather have Bettie look like her!**

** kanonierasch . tumblr post/ 96303008199 / brief-deviation-from-the-usual-content-i-love-the**

**And also another fun blog with both the show and the real 214 featured:**

**214squadron . tumblr . com**


	6. Chapter 6

**So… I was kicked out about two weeks ago, and unfortunately, was not able to take my copies of Black Sheep. So, I'm trying, but I can't really watch the episodes anymore. I have thus far gotten the first season streamed, but it's not super reliable. It's working so far, but who knows? So bear with me!**

"Don't forget to have them bring my mechanic, my dog, and my WASP!" Boyington called after General Moore, who was leaving Boyington's guest quarters on Espritos Marcos after rousing him.

Boyington had been summoned to Rear Command earlier that day, and had taken off in the dark earlier that night. After landing on Espritos, and land he did, despite the orders of the tower, MPs were there to escort him from the strip to his usual quarters on the island—the brig. It seems that the tower was thoroughly done with the Black Sheep and their leader's penchant for disobeying flight patterns.

He and several other commanders had been gathered to take part in a mission. A suicide mission, to be exact—one that the commanders themselves could not fly. And not being able to fly a suicide mission with his men had not sat well with Greg. After the meeting, he'd sat Moore down with a bottle of wine and proceeded to explain his own plan for the impossible mission. Moore had initially dismissed him, citing higher powers than he that wanted this mission to happen. But in the very early morning hours, Moore once more had come to Boyington, telling him that he'd decided on Boyington's plan and to get his ass to Seona, on the double.

Within the half hour, Boyington was headed to the ex-Japanese base, where Moore had arranged for his squadron to be delivered.

* * *

It had been a very hung over squadron that was hustled out of bed and into a B-25 early the next morning. Light was barely breaking when the plane landed, and everyone—man, woman, and dog—were woken, told to dress, and then herded onto the carrier plane.

"Wha—what's going on?" Bettie yawned, hearing the commotion outside, as ensigns went from tent to tent, rousing disheveled pilots from their cots.

"Beats me." mumbled Gutterman. In the semi-light of the dawn, she could see his outline as he dressed. She followed suit, pulling on the first thing she found—her worn-out flight suit.

She was struggling to find a tee shirt in the darkness with her head pounding, but finally she did, and pulled on her boots, just as the ensigns came to their tent.

"Mission. Get to the airstrip on the double." was all he said before moving on.

The sleepy Marines gathered in a group along the strip, squinting in the light of the approaching dawn. They all looked the way Bettie felt. She felt a paw digging at her pant leg and looked down to find Meatball. She reached down and picked up the dog as the group began to file onto the plane as one of the men who had come to get them checked names off the list. She was behind her brother in line, who stated, "Sergeant Hutchinson, John D." before climbing into the plane.

"WASP Hutchinson, Beatrice R." She mumbled, when it was her turn, "and Private Boyington, Meatball." She bounced Meatball in her arms. Somewhere, some clerk had made a mistake in the personnel roster for VMF-214, and now Meatball was listed as a member of the squadron, with a given rank, to boot. It had become the running joke of the squad, especially since the paper pushers actually expected Meatball to be accounted for.

The ensign looked up in surprise at her, then at the dog, but Bettie ignored his strange look and followed Hutch into the plane. She squeezed in next to Hutch, and held Meatball on her lap so he wouldn't get underfoot. Next to her, T.J. sat, and she felt her brother stiffen. She still didn't know what was wrong with the whole squadron, but she was beginning to get a better idea. She leaned her head on Hutch's shoulder and groaned,

"Wake me up when we get there, would ya?"

* * *

The Black Sheep were unceremoniously unloaded onto a paved strip. They emerged, blinking in the tropical sun, onto an unknown base. Surrounded by spit-polished Navy officers instantly had their guard up, but they soon saw Pappy.

"Hiya, meatheads!" He greeted them cheerfully, from beside a ramrod straight officer. "How was the trip?"

"Now, Pappy, what in the blazes is goin' on?" Asked Gutterman, stepping forward. "We got Moore's people comin' in before down and herding us on to a _bomber_, 'n then they fly us to a _navy_ base?!"

"Yeah! Pulled us right outta the rack!" Boyle chimed in.

"Easy, gentlemen, easy. I'll explain what's going on in a bit. For right now, the Commander here is going to show you to your quarters. Commander?"

Commander Hightower, who had been eyeing the squadron with an expression of distaste, looked to Boyington. "Ah, yes. If you'll all follow me…" He trailed off, looking distressed at the idea of parading this ragtag bunch across the grounds of the camp.

Dutifully, the group of marines, one WASP, and one dog followed, but not without looking at Pappy for reassurance. They trusted him that everything would be all right, but they'd still rather that he'd had them flown to Tokyo than to a navy base.

They were lead into a spotless barrack, and they huddled together in the center aisle of the room as the Commander cleared his throat to address them.

"One each bunk is an itinerary for your stay here on Seona. It begins with mess in forty-five minutes, and ends with take off in three days." He gestured to the crisp white sheets of paper on each regulation-made bunk. The marines passed them around in wonder at the idea that they of all units would be expected to follow an itinerary. Hightower pointed to either end of the barracks. "There are showers the next building over, and we have fresh Marine uniforms in the PX, across the way. Please prepare for mess. We will expect you in forty-five minutes." He repeated.

Once Hightower was gone, a clamor rose from the group.

"Itineraries?! Are they serious?"

"Pappy, you can expect us to-"

"All right, all right! Quiet down." Pappy raised his hands for silence. "Now, while we're on Seona, we're under the Navy's command. Just for a few days. Can you guys handle that?"

Another clamor arose, and this time, even Meatball voiced his displeasure with a howl. Bettie shushed him, and Pappy quieted down the rest of the group.

"We're here for a mission. I just found out not even the commander of the base knows what we're doing, all right? This is top secret stuff, and we all gotta play nice for a few days 'til we can go home."

"Yeah, but why're we here?" Gutterman asked. He for one had no intention of obeying naval regulations.

"Because the planes are here." Pappy answered.

Gutterman pulled his hat down over his face and laughed in frustration, "What planes?"

With a mischievous smile, Pappy gestured them to follow him.

* * *

"Those are Kates, Pappy!" T.J. exclaimed, upon seeing what occupied the hangar that Pappy had taken the group to. Bettie and Hutch, who'd hung towards the back of the group exchanged a sarcastic eye roll.

"Very good, T.J.! Everyone hear that? These are Kates!" Pappy called, with the tone of a schoolteacher who'd finally gotten through to the dunce of the class.

As he lead them around, he explained exactly what was going to happen for the mission. He was interrupted by a small explosion and the hiss of extinguishers as the navy mechanics struggled to douse the engine of a Zero that had caught fire.

"They're navy mechanics! What do you expect?" scoffed Hutch. Boyington raised an eyebrow at the sergeant and suggested,

"Then why don't you show them how a marine does it? The faster we get those birds flying, the faster we can get outta here."

Hutch snapped a half-assed salute and sauntered over. Bettie began to follow him, handing Meatball's leash off to Anderson, but Pappy stopped her.

"Not you, Bettie. I need you to listen in. You're coming with."

Surprised, she rejoined the group to listen in. She'd figured she'd been brought along because a general call for the 214 had come, and since she'd been attached to the squad, they took her for no reason other than paperwork's sake.

Boyington began to explain the mission again, when a young naval officer pulled up in a jeep. "Now just which one of you is Major Boyington?" He asked, surveying the motley group. Immediately, the squadron pointed to the only member of their number that was in correct uniform, which happened to be Larry Casey.

Casey looked around confused, but then again, it wasn't his first time being pointed at for that same question. From his perch atop the wing of the Kate, Boyington raised his hand. "That's me."

"You and your men are expected at mess, Major." The officer explained. The expression on Boyington's face told the 214 that even he hadn't taken the schedule seriously.

"We're on our way." Boyington sighed after a short exchange with the officer. He was busy, and didn't want to fraternize with the navy hotshots anymore than he absolutely had to.

* * *

The marine pilots trooped into the Quonset hut that served as a mess hall after Pappy. Bettie trailed in at the end, still not quite sure where she was supposed to be. Pappy waved her in and to the seat next to him. The Black Sheep stood until she was seated, a formality that she was rarely afforded back on Vella. She guessed that they were trying to make a point, as none of the navy officers stood at her entry.

"Man, they don't stand when a lady enters? I fear that we _are_ in uncivilized territory." Gutterman stage whispered to T.J.

Color rose above many of the starched white collars, but none of them made a move. Bettie sat gracefully in the chair that Boyington had pulled out for her—well, as gracefully as her stature and her self-consciousness allowed. Once she was seated, the marines too their own seats. She glanced at the head table, and cringed slightly under the glares of the two commanders. She was already out of place amongst the pilots at Vella La Cava, but here, she felt she stuck out even more. And it seemed that the commander of the base took her presence in his mess hall as a personal offense, just one more action from the Black Sheep to snub him.

There was an array of polished silver utensils at her place at the table and Bettie felt a moment of panic looking at them all. She'd never been anywhere aside from clubs and diners in her life, growing up poor hadn't exactly prepared her for life with officers. It turned out, she didn't need to know how to use them. Within moments, she and the rest of the marines had been thrown out of the mess hall. On her way out, she could hear the junior officers whispering about them, but especially her. It seemed, from what she could hear, her character was much in question.

* * *

"Pappy, I'm flying with my knees to my chin!" Bettie called over the radio as the assortment of Japanese planes leveled off at altitude. Corsairs were one of the biggest fighters out there, but they still were a tight fit for taller pilots. The Japanese pilots were shorter than the Americans on average, which left Bettie hopelessly cramped in her winged tin can of a Zero.

"Me too." Came the reply from Anderson, the only one in the outfit beside Hutch taller than her.

"Me three." T.J.'s voice crackled through her headset.

"Me four." Casey sounded quite resigned. He was convinced that he was going to die in that Val he was flying.

"I know, I know. I tried to form a squadron of short pilots, but wouldn't you know it—the tall ones were all that I found in the reject pile." Boyington teased, "Now, lets get the hang of these damn things before we try to shoot carrier landings."

The pilots wrestled their planes into formation, following Boyington's Kate. "Now guys, when we fly the mission, we're going to torpedo the Kubitsu. You _have_ to be accurate, and not dump your payload in the ocean! Everyone remember how to do that?"

Affirmative answers crackled across the airwaves.

"Bettie, you just stay upstairs and take pictures. We'll mount a camera on your wing, and all you have to do is stay out of the way."

"Roger." Bettie acknowledged the instructions. Her hand dropped from the mic onto the stick once more. Her first combat mission, and all she had to shoot was pictures. The truth was, she couldn't be more relieved.

"What do you say we take a test run? Black Sheep, on me." Boyington's plane banked out of formation and towards the ground, followed by the rest. Bettie stayed where she was overhead, settling into a lazy bank to starboard to circle the spot where the Sheep were bombing. Much to her amusement, it was over the huddle of officers on the strip watching. They scattered like tiny ants under the approaching planes, probably worried that the crazy marines would auger right into the ground.

As the squadron came back up to her level, Boyington couldn't hide a laugh. "All right, meatheads. No more terrorizing the navy. They're on our side… I think."

They took a few more practice dives, before the major proposed that they shoot their landings and see if they can make it down.

"Hey Pappy, you mind if I set down first?" Bettie asked, looking over at the plane next to her. Boyington looked back at her.

"Why?"

"Because I've landed on a carrier in the past two months, and I wanna get on the ground before one of you boneheads foul the strip trying to show the squids down there something!"

"All right, ladies first. The rest of you, follow Bettie in."

The landing went easily, now that she was getting used to flying practically in a fetal position. The flight director on the ground guided her in. She landed a little lower than he'd gestured, just to steam him a little. Living with the misfits of the Corps had influenced her a bit. Besides, for all his threats of laying out the pilot who ignored him, was he really going to hit a girl?

She taxied to the hangar and watched from the cockpit as each bird set down. Gutterman, in his typical fashion, did the exact opposite of every direction. She figured she should probably beat the navy to him, if she wanted to keep her roommate in one piece.

"Hey Hutch!" She called to her brother, working nearby. "Grab a crowbar. You're going to need to pry my ass outta here!"

She struggled to get out of the seat with a little help from Hutch, who hooked his hands under her arms and pulled her straight up.

"Thanks," she said breathlessly as she climbed down. "I gotta go get Gutterman."

By the time Bettie reached Gutterman, there was a full-blown brawl happening, with all the Black Sheep involved. Bettie waded in carefully, ducking punches. One white capped officer, probably deceived by her height and flight helmet, threw a punch towards her face. She rocked back from the blow to her mouth, and snatched him up by his collar and his belt, before pitching him out of the fray. She grabbed another and sent him after the first, making her way through the crowd, until her own collar was grabbed. It was Pappy, who'd finally landed, dragging her backwards out of the mess.

"Get outta here, would you?!" He exclaimed as he released her, giving her a push away from the fight.

Commander Pritchett had come screaming up in a jeep and was now striding towards the fight, shouting that he wanted the pilots arrested. Boyington had ended the fight, like he always managed to, and now was pulling the commander away.

"Now we've had this out. I have a very unorthodox bunch of cutthroats on a very unorthodox mission…" He growled. Bettie could overhear him snarling that they weren't going to arrest "his boys" since they had a mission to fly, a very important mission.

She wiped the blood from her face with the back of her hand and spat. She was thankful that among the many things that Hutch had taught her growing up, one of them was how to handle herself in a fight. Casey handed her a handkerchief to staunch the blood flowing from her split lip and T.J. momentarily forgetting Hutch's warning about touching his sister, pounded on her back in riotous joy.

"Did you guys see that? She just waded right in'a the middle of it all like it was nothing!" He crowed. All around her, pilots were slapping her on the back and cheering. She guessed she'd finally earned her place in their band of misfits. Not that being a six-foot tall female pilot didn't already make her one.

"She's our little lamb, ain't she?" Bragg grinned, giving he a shove that sent her stumbling into T.J.

The men broke into the song that had become their anthem, "We are poor little lambs, who have lost our way…"

* * *

Boyington stopped the joyful group as soon as they had bailed out of the jeeps that had shuttled them back to base.

"Now if that ever happens again, if any of you take a swing on a naval officer, you'll do three rounds with me… or less. Tomorrow we're gonna shoot more landings. _None_ of you meatheads have ever shot carrier landings in a Kate, so it figures you've got nothing but time to start fights with naval pilots. We've got to get serious about this thing, or we're all gonna get nailed into boxes." Boyington scolded them all as they quieted down. "Now after this operation's briefings, what I want is for you to go into the barracks and study the flight characteristics of Kates. We're gonna fly some practice this afternoon. Now let's get goin'."

They began to disperse towards the tent and Bettie hunkered down, trying to blend with the rest of the group, but she felt a tug on her braid. She stopped and slowly and guiltily looked at her CO, who was holding the end of her hair. "And you," He frowned at her sternly, "Good job. But leave it to the meatheads to get hit." He grinned at her and she returned the smile, until her lip cracked and she started bleeding again. She quickly pressed Casey's blood-soaked handkerchief to her mouth, before trotting after the rest of her squadron.

* * *

Rather than reading the manuals on the Kates that she was supposed to, Bettie headed off to the hangars to a get a little hands-on experience with them. She found that she flew better in flight school once she actually learned how her plane was designed. She found Hutch standing in front of one of the Zeros watching a naval mechanic start it. He had his hands up as if he was pleading with it to start, cringing along with the sputtering engine. As she drew closer, she could hear him muttering,

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon!"

When it finally caught, he tossed his had in the air with a whoop. She lightly punched his shoulder when she got within reach. "Got another one up!" She grinned at him, momentarily forgetting her puffy, split lip. It started bleeding again and she swore, fishing for the handkerchief once more.

"Oh, Stretch. You didn't go get involved with that fight, did you?" Hutch sighed.

Bettie just grinned a little wider, behind the handkerchief. "Who, me? Anyways," She said after a pause, "How is it going?"

Hutch shook his head and began to walk away. "You wouldn't believe these things! They're horrible. The wiring on them…" He looked at her helplessly, "I've never seen anything like it! I don't think I'll get enough of them up in time."

Bettie patted his shoulder reassuringly. Her brother was a brilliant mechanic, and if he was given enough time, he could solve any problem you could have with a plane. She had faith that he could do it. He just may need help with the simpler tasks so he had the time to handle the bigger stuff.

"Oh. Pappy told me he wants you to take a Zeke up. He gave me a camera to attach. Mind doing it yourself?"

"Sure." Bettie began to smile again, but she stopped herself when her lip pulled. "Let's go get it, and I'll take care of it."

Hutch led her into the hangar, and found the camera and brackets right where he'd left them. "Here you go. Lemme know if you have any questions."

She took the gear and a few tools that he gave her along with it, and found the Zeke she'd flown earlier. Some pilots were superstitious about always flying the same plane. While Bettie was not one of them, she still had liked the way the little plane had flown, so she might as well claim it for the mission. She crawled underneath the plane, and set to work mounting the camera.

While she was at it, she pulled panels off the craft where she could and looked around the inside. Hutch was right. The planes were a mess. The wiring harnesses running through the frame were tangled and overly complex. She wondered if they even needed all those wires.

The next plane over, she hear Pappy's voice, and peeked out from under her plane to see Boyington and a general talking to him.

"I dunno, sir. By morning. I got four Kates that can fly, maybe as many Vals, and a couple of Zekes." Hutch explained, one arm wrapped around the propeller of the Kate he was working on.

"Well are they all rigged for torpedoes?" The general question, hands on his hips.

"… More or less, sir." Hutch answered, "Bu-"

"More or less?!" The general shouted.

"We're doing the best we can, Greg—I-I mean, sir." Hutch corrected himself quickly, "But the wiring on these birds looks like something cooked up by Chef Boyardee!"

Hutch gestured with his wrench as he got more and more adamant. This one time, he thought Pappy had gotten him in over his head for sure!

"And the hydraulic systems are not to be believed. I mean, they're really strange, Greg. Sir!" Hutch's voice rose in distress as he corrected himself. Ordinarily it wouldn't be a problem, but with the general there…

"But we're doing it as fast as we can. I swear." He lowered his voice and hands, trying to placate the two officers.

"Thanks, Hutch." Boyington sighed, before turning to follow General Moore. Moore was heading in Bettie's direction.

He spotted her lurking behind her Zeke, wrench in hand as she changed the oil in the plane. She knew she looked a sight, blood on her chin and dirt and grease streaking her face and forearms, but she'd hoped that he wouldn't notice her.

"Boyington, what is she doing here?" Moore moaned. He knew it was a mistake letting Boyington talk him into attaching a WASP to the Black Sheep.

"You sent for the whole squadron. You got the whole squadron." Pappy shrugged. "She's one of my pilots."

"Let me guess, that ugly mutt of yours is around here, too?" the general sighed. It was just like Boyington to bring his whole gypsy camp to parade around the naval base. At the mention of him, Meatball trotted out from his shady hiding place and nosed General Moore's hand with a wag of his stumpy tail.

"She's just helping out, right?" Moore hoped he could overlook this. As long as that-that _girl_ stayed on the ground at Seona, he could probably make it through this without his higher ups coming down on him for allowing a civilian to fly combat.

"Yeah, helping us out with pictures." Boyington grinned.

"Not a word, Boyington, not a word. If anyone hears you took a mere girl on a combat mission…" The expression on Moore's face told Boyington he didn't want to find out what would happen.

"I won't peach about it if you don't." Boyington said with a mischievous smile. He knew Moore had his back. Moore grunted at him and waved a hand.

"Remember, you fly at oh-eight-hundred. If those planes aren't ready, you do it in the Corsairs." He repeated as he climbed into the staff car. "Good luck, Boyington."

"The Black Sheep can do anything!" Boyington laughed.

"Yeah, except salute." Moore grumbled. The staff car roared away, and Boyington went to go see if he could do anything to speed up Hutch.


	7. Chapter 7

**In case you didn't notice, Becks1964 changed her title to "Pappy Meets a Lady Pilot." Same story, a little more extended! Go read that one!**

As much as Bettie wanted to stay and help Hutch with the planes, Pappy shooed her to bed around 2200 hours. When she protested, he put up his commanding officer front, and barked,

"That's an order pilot!"

Bettie acquiesced and put her tools away, but not without shooting Pappy a pouty look. He crossed his arms and waited patiently for her to finish up so he could drive her back to the Quonset that was housing the 214. He still had some things to go over before he could turn in, but he wanted her safely with the rest of his crew for the night, and not wandering around Seona. He'd heard the junior naval officers speculating on her character as they left mess earlier in the day, and if she was shared by all the pilots or not. So safe to say, she wasn't going to be out of sight of the Black Sheep until they were safely off Seona for good.

"Good night, Hutch. I'll see you tomorrow morning." She hugged her brother on her way out of the hangar. He returned the embrace quickly, and ruffled her hair as she pulled away.

"Sleep well, Stretch." He smiled at her. Her face was streaked in grease from her trying to help him puzzle through the Japanese planes.

Boyington herded her towards the jeep he'd driven out to the field in, and called Meatball. The dog ran to his master and jumped into the jeep, where Pappy pointed. He settled on Bettie's lap with a _hmph!_ and dozed the whole trip back to camp. Boyington parked the jeep outside the barrack and shut it down.

"Go get some sleep Bettie. I need you good and sharp for tomorrow." He reached out to ruffle her hair like Hutch did, but hesitated and withdrew his hand. That was probably too familiar. Even though he wasn't even two decades older than his pilots, he still felt a fatherly affection for all of his company, the Hutchinson siblings included. Something about watching all of these newly branded adults struggle to come to terms with their adulthood in a time that was not so kind to people their age made him sympathetic towards them. He remembered what it was like to be that young.

"Go on." He cleared his throat. "Take Meatball with you. I gotta go over some last minute stuff over at Operations. I'll be in later."

Bettie touched a finger to her brow in a semi-salute before getting out of the jeep and climbing the steps. Meatball was heavy in her arms, and snuffling in his sleep as she carried him inside. She heard Boyington's footsteps fading into the darkness as she shut the door behind her. Snores from the sleeping pilots filled the room, but here and there, one was still awake. She moved towards the other end, looking for an open bunk. At the end of the room, she found a bottom bunk that was open. Gutterman's familiar snores emanated from the top bunk, and she figured he'd probably saved that one for her. T.J. was awake and reading by flashlight glow in the adjacent bunk. He was studying still, it looked like. He looked up as she passed.

"Gutterman insisted that the bunk at the end of the room be saved for you." He whispered. She laughed softly.

"Yeah, I see he was so insistent that he took the top one." She settled Meatball on the foot of the bed to sleep and shucked off her boots. "Don't look!" She hissed at T.J.

He dutifully turned his head, waiting for her to tell him she was decent, and fighting the urge to peek. He wondered just what she was doing. And the guys had stripped down to their boxer shorts, having nothing else with them. But for her, that wouldn't exactly be likely. The next bunk over, Bettie stepped out of her flight suit. She'd zipped it up to protect her clean tee shirt from the grease. Now, she peeled it off and folded it over the footlocker at the end of her bunk, and crawled into bed in her tee shirt and underwear.

"Okay, I'm done." She whispered as she tucked herself in. T.J. turned back a little quickly and he caught a peek of her long, bare legs as she pulled the covers up. He blushed profusely and fumbled to turn off his flashlight.

"Well, I'm gonna turn in. Good night, Bettie." He said, trying to keep his voice casual. A sleepy mumble drifted over to him from her bed, and he guessed she was already nearly asleep, cuddled up to Meatball.

He rolled over, facing away from her, and tucked one arm under his head. He felt a bit embarrassed about getting a peek when she was obviously uncomfortable with that. Normally, it wouldn't bother T.J. He wasn't exactly inexperienced with women changing and more. Usually though, the women he spent time with only said not to look for appearances sake. They didn't really care, because usually, later in the night they would be found in bed with him. But to T.J., Bettie was different. She was… innocent. He decided that "innocent" was the best word he could think of to describe her. She never noticed when he was looking at her, or if she did, she tended to look candidly back, and not blush and giggle like, well, every other girl T.J. had ever encountered. She was oblivious to his attempts to flirt with her—or anyone else's for that matter.

He couldn't help but wonder how she got to be her age and have no idea about flirting. He thought Hutch was protective—he'd fought T.J. over her after all—but not the kind to completely segregate her from boys. When she did open up a bit, he thought she was a fun girl; it was just so rare for her to show that. Maybe other guys were discouraged by her stony exterior and never bothered. T.J. could speculate all night, but really, he needed to sleep. It would do him no good to unravel her mysteries only to flatten himself on the deck of the Lexington tomorrow because he was exhausted. He closed his eyes and soon was asleep, dreaming of the mysterious, raven-haired girl in the next bunk over.

* * *

Boyington couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of his dog curled up against the girl the next morning when he went to start rousing his pilots. He had a plan for revenge to carry out before they left, and he needed to brief them. But he'd wanted to give Bettie time to take care of things alone in the head, before a dozen-odd pilots did.

"Are you cheating on me, darling?" He asked Meatball in a teasing voice. The dog grunted and closed his eyes again, but the girl began to stir. "Up and at 'em!" Greg cheerfully said, giving her a shake. "Your turn for the head. You've got fifteen minutes before it's the guys' turn."

She grumbled and flipped back the covers, dropping them on top of Meatball. The dog crawled out from under them and onto the floor, looking up at his girl and wagging his tail. Bettie, in the mean time pulled on her filthy flight suit and picked up the towel and soap that had been left on each footlocker for them. She supposed she'd have to stop by the PX and get a fresh uniform, but for now, she wanted to shower and wash the grease out of her hair before they left on the mission. Meatball followed Bettie to the head, still wagging his tail.

Much to Bettie's delight, the naval base had hot water. She took her sweet time getting clean, and even managed to coax Meatball into the stall with her so she could wash him too. She knew he'd probably be dirty again before they even took off, but she still wanted to wash the engine grease off. Once she was toweled off and redressed in her old clothes again, she braided her hair tightly so it would stay neat, and headed off to the PX. A damp, but considerably whiter Meatball padded after her, looking up at her with his doggy grin.

The officer manning the PX looked her up and down critically as she entered with the dog on her heels. He'd heard about the Marine unit that was on the base and that they had a lady pilot along, but he'd yet to see her. She offered him a friendly smile as she approached the desk.

"Hiya. I was told that I could get a fresh uniform here."

The officer—who was only an ensign, she noted—frowned slightly before stating, "WASP uniforms are not available."

She sighed, before leaning forward on the desk. She towered over him, even bent at the waist. "Well, no. I assumed that. And even if you did, I doubt it would fit me. A marine uniform will do just fine."

He stiffly got up and dug around a crate of uniforms.

"The tallest size you have, please." She called sweetly. She'd hate for him to give her one that didn't fit just to spite her.

He thrust it in her direction. "We don't have WASP wings, either."

"That's okay. I brought my own!" She smiled even more sweetly at him. Her wings had somehow ended up in the pocket of her old flight suit. She'd probably put them in her pocket for safe keeping while doing laundry at La Cava, and she'd found them yesterday. She pulled them out and pinned her silver wings over the gold one printed on the blank name patch on the new uniform. With one final look, she turned on her heel and marched out the door.

"Thanks for the uniform, Ensign!" She called over her shoulder. Meatball let out one resounding _woof!_ at the naval officer before trotting after his girl.

* * *

She knew that the Black Sheep were up to something that morning, but they decided not to involve her. Boyington had sent her to the field to get all the planes warming up as soon as she'd gotten back from the PX. It was a bit early to takeoff, but she knew that he wanted off the island as soon as possible. He'd flagged down a sailor driving a jeep and had loaded her and Meatball up with her instructions. She was sure that she didn't want to be involved in whatever it was that they were doing.

Once at the field, she relayed her instructions to Hutch. He nodded his head, and shouted at the naval mechanics to start the job. "Go warm yours up, Stretch." She ducked her head in acknowledgement, before heading off to warm up her Zero.

Just a few moments later, two jeeps piled high with whooping and cheering Black Sheep screeched to a halt, and the pilots swarmed out and scattered to their planes. Hutch appeared at Bettie's and stepped up on her wing.

"Promise me you'll be careful, okay?" He shouted over the noise of the engines. He leaned in and buckled her harness for her, straightening her Mae West and her collar. "Let the guys take care of anything that comes up after you. It's not your job. You have ammo, but don't engage anyone if you don't have to." He buckled her chin strap for her. He knew she hated to be fussed over, but he couldn't help himself. He was terrified that Boyington was taking her along.

She reached up and patted his shoulder. "I'll be okay! I promise I'll be careful." She grinned up at him, ignoring the pain of her split lip. "Thanks, Hutch. I'll see you back on La Cava tomorrow!"

He looked worried, and she felt bad to make him worry about her like that. She knew she'd be safe though, so long as she flew well. Pappy had said that he didn't expect any resistance, so she wasn't very worried about being forced into a dogfight. She waved at her brother, who was on the ground now. He waved back, with Meatball at his feet, and gave her a thumbs-up. She reached up and hooked her fingers onto the edge of the canopy, and slid it shut. Now, with the other planes blocked out by the canopy, she was alone with just the sound of her own engine. She fell into line behind Gutterman's Zero, as the line of planes taxied to the runway for takeoff.

When it was her turn, she eased the throttle up higher and higher until she felt the bird start to lift. She pulled back on the stick and she was airborne, trailing after the aircraft in front of her. Once everyone was in the air and at cruising altitude, Boyington ordered for them to form up and maintain radio silence. Bettie guided her plane into line with Gutterman, who was serving as her wingman this flight. He held his hand up in a sign asking _Okay?_ She gave him a thumbs-up, and a nervous smile. It was a lot easier to feel more confident when she was on the ground. But now, on their way to the Lexington, she felt that weight in the pit of her stomach that all combat pilots felt.

Hutch and Meatball watched the planes as they lifted off one after another. The third Zero up waggled its wings as they made the turn to head off. All he had left to do now was wait. General Moore, who was watching the flight from a jeep, waved Hutch over.

"Need a ride home, son?" He offered.

"They're supposed to come back, sir. I'll ship out with them." Hutch answered, his cap in his hands.

Moore let out a resounding laugh. "If you think those pirates won't steal those planes and take them back to Vella La Cava until the Navy comes in and takes them back, you're lying. Get in the jeep, Sergeant. I'll have you and _my_ dog flown home."

* * *

As the carrier came into view, Pappy broke radio silence to contact the ship.

"Lexington, this is Meatball Leader. We're making our approach."

"Roger, Meatball Leader. We'll get ready for you down here."

As they circled, they watched the activity on the deck. A Corsair took off to escort them, and they watched the deck seethe with tiny ant people as the ship was prepared for their landing.

"Babyjane One to Meatball Flight Leader, how's it sitting in those things?" The pilot of the escort plane called over the radio as he joined the flight. Bettie could hear the banter over the radio and the directions, but she was too nervous to pay attention, until she heard Boyington hailing her.

"Little Sister, you'll go in first… Little Sister… Bettie…"

"Yeah! Sorry. What was that?" She fumbled for her mic to respond. _Little Sister?!_ She couldn't help but think. Was that what her call sign was now? News to her.

"You're fine. Keep your head on your shoulders and follow the escort plane in. You'll set down first."

"Roger, Pappy." She said, her voice betraying her nerves.

"Is that a gal I hear?" called Babyjane, his voice sounding friendly. "You must be that WASP attached to the 214."

"Y-yeah. I am." Bettie responded, following the Corsair. He had begun his descent and was leveling off to land.

"Well you just follow me in, Little Sister. We'll take good care of you."

"Thanks…" her voice was barely more than a whisper. Since when did her mouth get so dry? She'd done carrier landings before.

She watched the little yellow figure on the deck that was the flagman intently, matching her wings to the flags. There was a split second of terror between feeling the deck meet her wheels and feeling the plane yank to a stop as she hooked the wire. Every bone in her body melted as she collapsed into her seat, breathing deep. She'd done it. The crew freed her plane, and she taxied out of the way for the next plane, which was Gutterman. From the Corsair who'd brought her in, the pilot gave her an enthusiastic grin and a double thumbs-up. She gave him a tired wave as the adrenaline that had flooded her system a moment ago drained away.

Once the planes were all down, the crew of the ship set to filling the gas tanks on all of them. The sailor on her wing shyly handed her a canteen before filling her tank. She drank from it gratefully, glad to wash away her dry throat.

"Thanks." She smiled, handing it back.

"You're welcome." He stammered, "I-it's an honor to meet you, miss. We'd heard that 214 had a lady pilot. I… I mean, _we_ think it's mighty brave of you to fly missions. Gives us hope. I mean, with all us men fighting, it's good to see a woman brave enough to fight with us." He removed the hose from her tank and screwed the cap back on. "Well, you're all full. Fly safe, miss."

He began to climb down, but she stopped him. "Thank you. I really mean that. Stay safe, sailor."

He gave her a salute and jumped down, getting clear of the flight deck. Bettie returned the salute before closing her canopy and starting up again. Takeoff was easier than the landing, though she watched worriedly as T.J.'s Kate dipped dangerously low at the end of the flight deck. He didn't give the bird enough powered before reaching the end of the deck, but he recovered and soon rejoined the rest of the planes. They resumed formation once more and continued their flight. Bettie felt nervous when she looked down at the Japanese posts that they were flying over, but they stayed quiet at their passing.

As they drew near to the _Kubitzu_, Greg broke radio silence. "Okay guys. We hit the flattop in ten minutes. Arm your torpedoes."

Bettie rose slightly above the formation so she'd be out of their way when they dove. Once over the carrier, she flipped the switch she'd wired to start the camera's shooting, and she circled the ship and watched the attack below. She made one last pass as the rest of the Black Sheep regained altitude, and turned off the camera and joined up. She found her spot in the formation next to Gutterman and settled in for the long flight back to Vella La Cava, which was just barely in their range.

"All right you guys. Let's take them home." Pappy's voice crackled over the air waves.

* * *

It was late afternoon by the time the flight reached their island. One by one, they set down on the familiar strip, and taxied the Japanese planes into a row opposite of the Corsairs. When Bettie had shut down he Zero, she popped the latch on her canopy and slid it back, but stayed in the cockpit. She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes, utterly exhausted from all the excitement of the past few days.

"Darlin', you look like you've been beat with a stick." Gutterman observed, climbing out of his own plane.

"Have you seen my face?" She laughed, dragging herself slowly out of her seat, "Remind me not to defend your honor again, Captain."

He laughed loudly, leaning against the fuselage of his plane for support. "I haven't had an honor that needed defending since that cute little blonde in high school."

Bettie raised an eyebrow at him. "Really, Captain. That's more than I ever needed to know. She continued to climb down from her perch until she was safely on the dirt. "I just didn't want them to murder my wingman. Though… if I'd let them, at least I'd get the tent to myself."

Bettie tiredly dragged after the other pilots, who were considerably more excited than she was. It had been a brilliant plan, and it had been executed flawlessly. She respected Boyington's planning skills. She just wasn't nearly as excited as the rest of the men, since all she could think of was the crew of the _Kubitzu_. Footsteps came up behind her, and a tanned, wiry arm draped around her shoulder.

"Good flight, Stretch?" Her brother asked, walking with her towards camp. She leaned against him as they walked.

"Yeah." She said quietly, "Just tired. It was a lot of flying." She looked over, realizing that he still was supposed to be on Seona. Boyington had planned on sending her back in the little L-5 to pick him up the next morning. "How did you get back?!"

Hutch chuckled. "General Moore had guessed Boyington was going to keep the planes, so he arranged for Meatball and me to be flown home."

"I guess he wasn't wrong." She giggled. She sighed and was quiet for a minute, before asking something that she'd been curious about since she'd started living on the island. "Why do all the guys like to talk about how many girls they've… you know?" Her voice was soft to keep it from carrying, but Hutch's loud laughter made a few pilots look back at them.

"Oh, Bettie." He sighed, catching his breath, "My sweet sister."

"It was an honest question! I've heard more about that than I've ever wanted to know lately. I was just wondering why." She pouted.

"It's just a guy thing. It's like showing off who is better. That's all." He shrugged. She pondered that for a moment.

"Wow," she finally said, "That's all they can come up with to measure themselves with? Kills and girls?"

"Don't look at me." Hutch held up his hands in front of him. "I'm just answering your question."

Bettie shook her head. Guys were strange enough in normal situations, but when you pile them on a tropical island with nothing to do except get shot at every day, they just seemed even stranger. She didn't understand them, and part of her hoped she never would. The crowd of pilots they'd been following filed into the Sheep Pen for their traditional after-mission drink… or twelve. Hutch excused himself and headed for his tent, and Bettie decided to head for hers as well.

"Where do you think you're going?" called someone as she headed away from the club. She turned back to find Anderson and Boyle leaning against the side, having a smoke.

"To bed." She was exhausted, and didn't feel like handling the rambunctious marines. Anderson stubbed out his cigarette.

"Really? Don't you know it's a Black Sheep tradition to have a drink after a mission?"

"I do. Which is why you all smell like booze the next day." Her voice was strained, as she inched towards her tent. She didn't like the look that the two exchanged.

Anderson came stalking towards her, Boyle close behind, grinning. She kept moving backwards, hoping they'd leave her be and go back to smoking. They obviously had mischief in mind, and she didn't want to be a part of it.

"C'mon, guys. You wouldn't keep a girl from her bed, would you?" She pleaded. The two exchanged a grin and she knew what they were thinking. "Not like that! Forget it. I'm going to bed."

She turned to walk away and next thing she knew, she was looking at the ground and Anderson's back as she was tossed over his shoulder. He was carrying her back to the Sheep Pen like a caveman! She kicked and squirmed as she squealed,

"Put me down! Put me down right now, Anderson, or so help me God…"

"Or what? What're you going to do to me?" He teased, shifting her as he pulled open the door.

"Kick your ass! That's what I'm going to do!" She pounded on his back with her fists but he just laughed and deposited her into a chair.

"Just sit your can there and have a drink and if you still feel like it, you can beat me up after." Anderson laughed.

A moment later a glass of scotch appeared in front of her and she was handed a lit cigarette. She grumbled but took a drag off the cigarette and slowly exhaled the smoke through her nose like a dragon as she glared at Anderson and Boyle from across the table. Casey sat in the seat next to her with a beer.

"Don't take it so hard, Bettie. They did it to me too after my first mission." He took a drink from the can in front of him. "It'll make you feel better. I promise."

She ashed her cigarette in the ashtray at the middle of the table, and brought it back up to her lips, leaving it between them as she swirled the liquid in her glass. The tip of the cigarette smoldered as she listened to the conversations around her. Someone put a record on, and the jukebox on the corner played the refrains of some song from the States that made them all cheerful. T.J. took the seat on the other side of her, and bumped her with his shoulder to get her attention. She looked up, realizing that the tip of her cigarette was mostly ash, and she stubbed it out before looking at him.

"First mission. That's pretty exciting." He started. He wanted a conversation with her, to get know her, but he was a little intimidated by the way she'd been staring broodingly at her scotch, cigarette dangling between her lips.

"Yeah." She said quietly. She sipped at her scotch. She winced as it burned her sore lip a little.

He tried again. "It was weird flying those planes today, huh?"

"Mmhmm." She was back to looking at her drink contemplatively. He was a little frustrated at he lack of response, but he wasn't ready to give up just yet.

"And that carrier landing. Scared the daylights out of me. I don't like landing on a surface that drops out from under you at the last second. You did it beautifully, though…"

"Thanks." She murmured, still not looking up. T.J. threw back the rest of his own scotch for courage before blurting,

"Look, will you just dance with me?"

Her gaze flew to him in surprise. Surely he didn't say what she just thought he did.

"W-what?" She stammered.

"Well normally I'd ask Boyle, but he keeps stepping on my toes! So what do you think?" He cracked, looking hopefully at her. They could talk while dancing, and maybe she'd loosen up a bit.

She blushed and stammered, "S-sure." She finished her own drink, and got up with him.

Bettie liked to dance very much, actually. She just normally didn't get asked to very often. She had to admit that she was rather intimidating when she was looking down at her partner. But T.J. was tall enough that she wouldn't have the same problems she did in high school. She let him lead her near the jukebox, where the other Sheep had cleared a space for them in awe.

"So, do you normally dance with Boyle?" She asked, laughter in her voice as she took his hand in hers and rested her other hand on his shoulder.

"Nah. He has two left feet." T.J. winked at her and began to dance. Bettie felt a bit of a jolt in her stomach when he winked, and she didn't quite understand. Must be the scotch.

"Oh." She breathed, following his lead.

It was a faster paced swing song, the kind she'd enjoyed dancing to at home. It certainly felt different not wearing a skirt and dancing in boots though, not that she minded terribly. T.J. was, to her surprise, an excellent dancer. She was glad she hadn't turned him down. She felt a little self-conscious, knowing that everyone was watching them, but the feeling disappeared after a moment.

T.J. was surprised that Bettie, as awkward as she normally was, move quite gracefully to the music. She was good at following his lead too, as if she could read his mind. He had to stretch a bit to spin her under his arm, but otherwise, she was fine. She followed his fanciest steps easily, grinning with the split lip of hers. He liked the way she lit up when she danced.

He'd grown up in a fairly affluent family and had been taught to dance when he was young, but the people of his class—his family's class—wouldn't be caught dead dancing a swing. And any of the daughters he'd coaxed into trying had been terrible. That's how he'd developed his tendency of slumming, as his father called it, when he went out to nightclubs in the seedier parts of town. He knew it drove his father insane, especially when he began to fail classes in university because he stayed out rather than study. But he didn't care if he failed. Which is how he ended up in the Marines. One too many failed classes and he'd found that his father had enlisted him.

As the song came to an end, he realized that he'd been enjoying putting her through harder and harder steps and had forgotten to talk to her. The way she was looking at him though, he doubted he'd have to work too hard to get her to talk now. Anderson and Boyle—those rascals—had selected the next song on the jukebox, and the soft sound of Billie Holiday singing "I'll Be Seeing You" drifted through the room. Bettie and T.J. broke apart looking away from each other.

"I-I think I wouldn't mind another drink." She murmured, painfully aware that everyone in the room was staring at her. Except Pappy, but he was at the bar chuckling to himself, his back to the rest of the room.

T.J. went to get her another, leaning on the bar next to Boyington while French poured two more scotches for him to take. Greg was still laughing to himself. He couldn't believe that T.J. had finally gathered enough courage to finally make a move. It had only been going on three months that he'd been mooning over her.

"Treat her nicely, T.J." He warned his lieutenant. T.J. had the decency to blush and harshly whisper,

"It's not like that!"

"Yeah, I'm sure you said that about all those nurses, too. You be sweet. Don't forget, she can actually shoot you down." Greg raised his eyebrows at the younger man. "And this time, I won't pull Hutch off of you."

T.J. frowned at his CO, "I won't do anything. She's too good for that."

Boyington nodded and turned back to his drink. "Damn straight she is."

T.J. picked up the drinks and brought them back to where Bettie was waiting, at the table near the door.

"What d'ya say we get outta here?" He asked.

Relief washed over her and she quickly stood. "Yeah, I'd like that."

He handed her the drink he'd brought for her and opened the door for her to leave. As he stepped out after her, he turned back over his shoulder to glare at the rest of them, silently daring them to try to follow them.

**Oooooh! T.J. got brave! Yay!**


	8. Chapter 8

The Zero stayed glued to her tail, no matter what she did to try to get away. This pilot had to be a seasoned one, since nothing she did even fazed him. He'd punched a few holes in her Corsair already, but nothing to critical had been hit. She was losing her nerve though, as she threw her stick over into another hard bank. She felt her bird shudder as the Zeke behind her out turned her and chewed up her wing some more.

"Gutterman, where the hell are you?! He's taking me apart piece by piece!" She hollered into her mic, struggling to dodge the other planes dogfighting nearby.

"I'm trying to get to you! Hang on!" Her wingman's voice sounded small over the speaker in her helmet.

She pushed her stick forward and urged her craft into a dive, when the sound of ripping metal filled her ears, and oily black smoke filled the cabin. She was choking and it was burning her lungs. Her canopy had jammed overhead, and she scrabbled helplessly at the latch, trying to unstick it. She was rocketing toward the ocean at full speed, trapped in her very own coffin. She pounded on the plexiglass that trapped her…

And she woke up screaming at the top of her lungs. Her covers had been thrown to the floor and she was bolt up right, covered in a cold sweat. Gutterman was already kneeling next to her cot, asking her what was wrong. Lights flared on all around as footsteps and confused voices filled the night. Casey and T.J. burst in, followed closely by Greg, and Hutch a few seconds later.

"What's going on? Is she okay?" Pappy barked at Gutterman, kneeling beside her cot. He picked up her blanket and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders. Hutch settled on the other side of the cot from them and hugged her tightly, trying to calm her down. Casey and T.J., along with several others who'd been woken by the cacophony were huddled in the doorway

"I don't know! I was sleeping and next thing I know she's sitting upright screaming her fool head off!" Gutterman seemed pretty shaken. She'd never even shown signs of dreaming before and now she was shrieking like a banshee.

Bettie's scream had turned into squeaky, hiccupping sobs. She was okay. She didn't auger into the ocean. That Zero didn't flame her. She curled into a very small ball against her brother.

"It's just a nightmare." He soothed, rocking her gently. "You're okay."

She sniffled, "The Zero, John… he got me…"

Hutch glared at Boyington. He knew just why she was having nightmares. The major had already taken her on one mission, what was to stop him from taking her up again and again until she didn't come home?

"He didn't get you, Bettie, honey… you're okay."

Boyington sat back on his heels, knowing the glare from his mechanic was well deserved. He shouldn't have taken Bettie on a mission, especially not one that big. A bomber or cargo escort should have been her first mission. Something routine and easy and safe.

"She'll be okay. It's just a nightmare. Go back to bed, guys." Pappy waved off the pilots in the doorway of the tent. They trailed away, not quite wanting to leave. They were worried about her. They'd all been there. Sometimes they still were there.

"You okay, Jim? She probably gave you quite the fright."

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just worried about her." He'd moved back to sit on his cot, but he kept glancing worriedly about her. Now that he was more awake, he realized she'd been talking before she started screaming—he'd just been too far asleep for it to wake him, but he could hear it now. She'd been calling for him to cover her. She'd been scared and alone, and he wasn't doing his job in her dream. The idea shook him up more than he liked to admit.

"Well, kids, I'm going back to sleep then. There's not much else I can do. Sleep well." Boyington got to his feet and headed back out into the night. Hutch started to get up too, but Bettie was clinging to him.

"Please don't leave. Not yet." She whimpered.

"You're fine. Jim's here. You're not alone…" He tried to pry her off of him. It broke his heart when he heard her screaming, but she still needed to learn to handle it on her own. There was no guarantee that he'd always be there to stay with her.

She sniffled a bit more before whispering, "Okay… good night."

* * *

She didn't get anymore sleep that night, and ended up getting up as soon as dawn began to come. French found her making breakfast for the camp when he woke up to start the same task. It was his turn for KP duty that day.

"Well, good morning." He greeted her, sitting on the edge of a crate next to the camp stove. He crossed his arms and watched her. She looked like a wreck.

"Morning." She didn't bother to look up at him, instead she carefully stirred the pot of oats on the stove.

"You don't have to do that. It's my turn for KP." He offered. He wouldn't mind it terribly though if she took over for him. Like the rest, he couldn't cook. And if he didn't make breakfast, he couldn't be hassled for it.

"Don't worry about it. I was awake anyways." She gave him a wan smile. He'd been there last night to see what had happened.

"Well, thanks, then. You want company?"

"If you feel like staying." She gave the oats another stir and, satisfied with the consistency, she turned down the flame under them.

He watched her as she began scrambling powdered eggs to go with the oatmeal. The oatmeal usually was edible, but powdered eggs? There was nothing remotely appetizing about that. She did it differently than the directions in the manual, though. Instead of water, like he and probably every single other person in the whole damn war used, she added condensed milk that she'd diluted to reconstitute them. He wondered if it would actually make a difference or not.

"So, Don. Where are you from?" She asked after a moment. If he was going to keep her company, they might as well talk.

He jumped, surprised that she was talking to him. "Oh, I uh… from New Jersey… my dad owns a couple of newspapers there…"

She nodded as she continued to make eggs, making a little bit at a time so they would cook evenly.

"He, uh… well, he's expecting me to become an ace… so he can write about his son, the war hero." His voice was mocking for the last few words. He didn't want to let his dad down, but he also never saw himself getting his fifth kill, or even his fourth, any time soon.

"You'll get there in time. It's not like you get swarmed by Zekes every time you fly." She said sympathetically.

The Black sheep hadn't see action on several of their missions before the _Kubitzu_. It made all the pilots with four kills antsy. Personally, she was glad. It made maintenance that much easier when there weren't any bullet holes.

"Well, why don't you go let everyone know breakfast is ready?" She suggested, with a laugh. "I didn't burn anything, so they won't be able to follow their noses like normal."

* * *

French noticed a definite difference in Bettie's cooking. So did everyone else.

"Say, French, didn't you have KP this morning?" Boyle asked, pushing his eggs around his plate. He was amazed to find not a single burned piece.

"Yeah! These are really good!" Casey was mumbling, since his mouth was crammed as full as he could get it.

"Where did you learn to cook all of a sudden?" Bragg asked suspiciously, eyeing his plate.

As much as French was enjoying the rare praise, he couldn't take the credit for it.

"Sorry, guys, but I didn't make breakfast today. Bettie did." He shrugged.

"Aw, you didn't make her do it for you, French, did you?" Anderson scolded him.

"I volunteered." Bettie offered. "I was up and I wanted something that wasn't half cold and half burned for breakfast."

They booed her for making fun of their cooking before tucking in. Midway through their meal, they hear engines approaching. They wondered who could be coming to Vella La Cava now, but none were quite willing to leave a decent meal. They finished quickly though, and left French with the dishes.

* * *

"You know, Greg, word on her wasn't supposed to get out." Moore poured another slug of scotch into a tin cup. "So how is it nearly the whole fleet knows about her?"

Boyington took a drink from his own cup, "You know how word spreads as well as I do, General. We landed her on a carrier with twenty six hundred men aboard, and word gets out."

Boyington had known as soon as he saw the L-5 from Rear Command on the approach that he was in trouble. It had raised enough eyebrows that he'd gotten her attached to VMF-214 in the first place, but now he'd taken her on one of the most top-secret missions to date, and he could feel the heat.

"I know, I know, Greg. But lucky for us, moral is higher than ever because of her. That is the only thing keeping Washington from stringing us both up."

"Thank God for that." Greg threw back the rest of his drink. "So what's the plan then, General? Gonna fly her from base to base like a zoo animal?"

"No, to be honest, I was thinking more along the lines of leaving her here. Letting her continue flying with the Black Sheep. From what I hear, they're calling her the Little Sister of 214." Moore chuckled, "It makes me wonder how many have actually seen her."

"You know, I'd like to take her up, but she isn't a combat pilot, and frankly, I don't have enough planes, unless we're going to paint up one of those Zeros for her." Pappy said slowly. The plane was the least of his problems. She'd never flown combat, and that was dangerous—no matter how good of a pilot she was.

"I'll take care of the plane, Boyington. You can teach her to fly. If anyone can, it's you." He set his cup down. "Anyways, I'd like to speak to her for a moment, if you don't mind."

Boyington stood, "I'll send her here, General."

He was glad that Moore wasn't transferring her away from 214, but after last night, he was a little worried about taking her up. Maybe he'd just send her up only on routine escort missions, and if anything happened, she'd just stay close to the bombers and wait it out. He found Bettie helping with that morning's dishes. He was a bit sore that the general had landed as he was on his way to breakfast, but he supposed a missed meal wouldn't kill him.

"Bettie, I need you at the Op shack." He told her, "General Moore would like to speak to you."

She looked surprised, but dried her hands and moved towards the door. "Oh!" She pointed to a cloth-covered plate on a nearby table, "That's your breakfast. It's still pretty warm."

He couldn't help but smile at her thoughtfulness. Maybe she couldn't make his pilots anymore refined, but having her around was a breath of fresh air. "Thanks, Bettie. Now get going. He's gotta take off soon."

She left the mess tent and headed for the Op shack. When she reached it, she took a moment to straighten herself up. There wasn't much she could do about what she was wearing now—her usual uniform of an olive drab tee and the worn out flight suit rolled to her hips. She checked to make sure her shirt was at least tucked and her hair was neat. She stepped inside with a deep breath and snapped up a salute.

"Pilot Hutchinson, sir. Major Boyington said you wanted to see me."

"No need for the formalities, Miss Hutchinson. You're probably the only person on this damn island who salutes an old blister like me." Moore said welcomingly. "Come, sit. I have something to discuss with you."

She cringed internally at being called "miss," but she sat across from him, folding her hands in her lap, and waited for him to start.

"Now, I'm sure you know just how rare it is to find a lady pilot out here, on the front lines…" He began after a moment. "And it's far more rare to find one that flies combat…"

"Now, General, that was just one mission. Surely-" She began, but he held a hand up to silence her.

"You have to know the incredible power you hold right now, Miss Hutchinson. Men around the South Pacific are looking to you for courage. Morale is strong again, because of you." He looked at her for a long moment, and she shifted uncomfortably. She was just eighteen. She didn't want to be responsible for the morale of tens of thousands of soldiers. She just wanted to stay safe.

"I know it's a hard thing I'm asking, but I want you to consider flying as a full combat pilot. Not just ferrying planes and flying transport, not just assisting the mechanics, but a combat pilot, equal to any on this base. The fact of the matter is, we need all our good pilots helping out, and not just flying test runs for a single unit. And if you're not willing to fly combat, it's all right. I'll get you a reassignment to somewhere else useful." He fell quiet again. "Just take some time to think about it, and you can contact my office when you decide."

She was chewing her lip, which stung, but she was too lost in thought. "Will I get a commission?" She finally asked.

Moore laughed at her as he hoisted himself to his feet, "Kid, you fly combat, I'll pull every damn string I can to get you a commission."

"Will I stay with the 214?" She narrowed her eyes a bit.

"You'll stay with them, because Boyington is the only squadron leader who'd be willing to take a woman up."

"Then it's a deal, General." She stood and held out her hand. He took her hand and shook it.

"You have no idea what this will mean for the Allies." Moore thanked her.

"General, to be quite honest with you, I'm only here because the only person I have is here. And if flying combat will let me stay here, then that's what I have to do." She stated. Bettie didn't want him under any illusion that she was here for her country. She was here strictly to be with Hutch, and that was it.

Moore just grunted and headed out into the morning. Bettie sat heavily back into her chair.

"Oh, what did I just do?" She whispered.

* * *

To take her mind off of her nightmares and her promise of this morning, Bettie went to go help Hutch. She knew several of the Corsairs needed complete overhauls, and she was sure that there was more to do. There always was. Within minutes of her arrival, Hutch had armed her with tools and a rag and sent her to go change oil on several of the planes. He seemed to sense that she needed simple, mindless work to occupy her.

When they were working on the same bird, Hutch carefully brought up the night before.

"How are you feeling today?"

"I'm fine." She gave him a little smile, trying to reassure him. "It's just a bad dream, that was all."

He grunted and tightened a bolt. "You can talk to me about anything. You know that, right?"

She looked up at him and grinned, before smacking the brim of his hat down over his eyes with a giggle. "Of course I know that! You've always been there."

He huffed and set his cap back on his head. "I just wanted to make sure."

They worked for a few moments in silence before he broached another subject he'd been thinking about.

"So… I heard that T.J. asked you to dance last night…" He waited for her to speak. She'd always fill in the space if he just stayed quite.

"And he was very polite and not forward at all, and if he ever changes, I'll shoot him down." She said firmly. Some things, she didn't want to discuss. Especially when she was fairly certain that Hutch had gotten into a fight with T.J. about her. No one had actually confessed, but from what she'd noticed, that's what seemed to have happened.

"Trust me, his ego is used to it. Lots of nurses have shot him down before." Hutch sighed. He didn't want to see his little sister hurt, and he didn't want to see her with the biggest womanizer in the whole theatre.

Bettie just huffed, and continued working. She didn't feel like talking about it anyways.

* * *

As she was walking back to the camp from the field late that morning, T.J. caught up to her.

"Hiya, Bettie!" He greeted her cheerfully.

"Hi, T.J." She glanced over, wondering what he wanted. He sauntered casually beside her, his hands in his pockets.

"So about last night…" He began, eying her to gauge her reaction.

"Yes?" She stopped walking and faced him. He pulled up short. He hadn't expected her to stop so suddenly, and he'd taken two steps before he noticed.

"I had a lot of fun… you know, talking and stuff. I was wondering if you'd want to do it again sometime?" He looked hopefully at her, with his puppy dog eyes that no girl could resist.

She looked back at him candidly, though inside she was struggling to keep her face neutral. "Maybe. We'll see."

She continued on her way, leaving T.J. standing there, looking after her. French sauntered up to T.J., looking between the pilot and Bettie's retreating form.

"She kills me, Don," T.J. groaned. "Did you hear her? 'Maybe. We'll see.' We'll see?!"

French patted T.J.'s arm sympathetically. Nothing could drive a guy more insane than a girl who just didn't seem all that interested. And from what he'd heard, T.J. had had it bad for her ever since she set foot on Vella La Cava. He just hoped T.J. wouldn't lose his head when they were flying. He wouldn't have been the first pilot to, or the last.

* * *

Bettie ducked into her tent, trying to keep the grin off of her face that kept appearing. Her split lip was stinging, but she didn't care. Gutterman glanced up from his book at her entrance.

"Well, don't you look like the cat that just swallowed the canary?" He chuckled. "What's gotten you all in a state?"

Bettie flopped down onto her bunk with a contented sigh. Not only did she have a guy who was interested in her, but he was really interested. And cute, too. Something she'd never thought would happen.

"I'd tell you, but I think you wouldn't be terribly impressed, Captain Gutterman, what with your record." She practically purred.

He couldn't help but chuckle. It was a huge change from the early morning hours that he'd seen earlier. Oh to be so innocent again that something so small could make such a huge change.

"It looks like Wiley finally grew a pair."

Bettie wrinkled her nose at that image, and rolled onto her side to face her bunkmate. "What do you mean, finally?"

"Forget it." Gutterman grumbled, quickly returning to his reading. "I didn't say nothing." He really shouldn't have said that. She didn't need to know that it had taken Wiley four months to get up the courage to try.

"No, I'm pretty sure you said he _finally_ grew a pair." She was sitting up now, poised on the edge of her cot.

"I said nothing of the sort!" He replied indignantly. Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't move.

"Fine." She finally said, before getting up to leave. Her good mood was significantly dampened by his words. She supposed she'd find somewhere else to be.

As she wandered through the camp looking for Meatball to play with, Casey stuck his head out of the Op shack.

"Oh! Bettie, just the person I needed. C'mere for a minute, would ya?" He waved her over.

She came, and found Casey and Boyington working on the blackboard that served as the inventory of all their various pirating escapades. To her delight, Meatball was also there. She bent to scratch the dog behind his ears quickly, before turning her attention back to the two marines.

"Listen, we've got a deal for engine parts with the head mechanic over on Espritos, but he won't work with any of us. He's insisting he'll only deal with you. I guess the last time when we sent Boyle and Bragg, they caused some trouble." Casey explained.

"Okay, I'll go." She agreed. It was over eight hundred miles, but it was only a two and a half, maybe three hour flight, depending on the wind.

"Well," Casey rubbed the back of his neck, "It's not that simple… In order to get the parts, you have to trade eight cases of scotch and a case of MREs to the pilots on Munda for four cases of silk stockings, eighteen barrels of fuel and a jukebox, then you have to trade the jukebox for four cases of twenty millimeter on Rendova, then take the twenty millimeter and the silk stockings to Guadalcanal for sixty-five Lugers, and _then_ take the Lugers to Espritos to trade for eight cases of that new L-4 ammo. And then drop two cases of that ammo on Guadalcanal on your way back."

Bettie looked at Casey blankly. All that explanation just went right over her head. Pappy let out a bark of laughter,

"Yeah, it takes some getting used to. We'll write it all down for you."

Meatball pawed at her, and she picked him up. "So, tomorrow?" She asked, straightening up with the dog in her arms.

"No, now. You can stay on Espritos tonight, and fly back in the morning, if you don't want to fly back in the dark. I'll write up the orders for both, and you can use what's convenient." Boyington said, not looking up from the list he was making explain who was getting what.

Bettie groaned, "Today?"

"Yes, today! You've got about seven hours until sunset, if you leave right about now." Boyington folded the note and handed it to her, before moving to draft her orders.

"Who's copiloting for me, then?" She sighed, tucking the note in the hip pocket of her work suit. She'd change into her WASP blues before she left, she decided, so she at least looked the part.

"I dunno. Take Meatball." Greg shrugged. "You bring any other pilot and they might forfeit the deals."

Bettie looked at Meatball, who licked her face joyously. "Okay, okay. I'll fly with you."

Twenty minutes later, Bettie was changed and taking off in the base's DC-10. Meatball sat in the copilot's seat, wearing a flight helmet that someone had strapped on him. He was panting happily, though, since he was with Bettie.

* * *

It was well after dark by the time Bettie was returning home. She'd had Espritos radio ahead to let them know to expect her, and when she contacted Vella, Casey seemed happy to hear from her.

"Little Sister calling Black Sheep ground. Over."

"Little Sister, this is Black Sheep ground. Glad to hear from you. What took so long?" Casey's voice was a relief to hear after hours of droning engines. Meatball wasn't much of a conversationalist, and he'd slept the whole trip anyways.

"Hiya, Larry. You'll see when I set down. Have Hutch put on the lights for me, would ya?"

"You got it. See you soon. Ground out."

The runway was lit from the utility lights that her brother worked by at night, and she carefully guided the large plane to the ground. It felt unwieldy, compared to all the fighters she'd been flying lately. Once down and taxied out of the way, she waited for the door to be opened.

"Hey, can a girl get some help here?" She called as soon as the door was open.

Casey check off the crates as they were unloaded, checking to make sure that everything was there. Much to his surprise, there were extra crates.

"Bettie, there's more stuff here than there should be. In fact…" He checked his list, "There's a case of stockings, two of chocolate, a case of twenty mil, and two cases of L-4."

He looked at her questioningly, and she shrugged. "Don't look at me. Those were donations." She grinned slightly, her teeth white in the dark, "You know, from the guys at the bases."

Casey shook his head in wonder, "You're something else. We're gonna keep you on just to do this."

She laughed, throwing back her head. "That's fine, but I've got dibs on some chocolate and a couple pairs of stockings. That's my fee for flying sixteen hundred odd miles today." She watched as the last of the cargo was unloaded. "Well, gentlemen, I'm going to bed. That took it out of me."

"Yeah, rest up." Casey nodded as he erased some things he'd written and adjusted it to reflect their current haul. "Bomber escort tomorrow. Oh-seven-hundred hours."

* * *

By 0700, Bettie and the rest of the pilots were on the flight line, warming up their planes. She was taking up Boyle's plane, since there were no spares and since he'd managed to fall "ill" overnight. Now he was safely nestled in the hospital, being doted on by nurses. She heard the grumbling from the others all morning.

They were soon airborne in the bright morning sun, formed up and on their way to the meeting point. There was a playful chatter zipping around between planes, as they expected this to be routine. They were nearing the meeting point when suddenly shots rang out, as they were jumped by a squadron of Zekes. The Corsairs were scattered, and struggling to pair up with a wingman. Panicked calls were flying from plane to plane as they tried to cover each other. One Zero locked onto Bettie.

The Zero stayed glued to her tail, no matter what she did to try to get away. This pilot had to be a seasoned one, since nothing she did even fazed him. He'd punched a few holes in her Corsair already, but nothing to critical had been hit. She was losing her nerve though, as she threw her stick over into another hard bank. She felt her bird shudder as the Zeke behind her out turned her and chewed up her wing some more.

"Gutterman, where the hell are you?! He's taking me apart piece by piece!" She hollered into her mic, struggling to dodge the other planes dogfighting nearby.

"I'm trying to get to you! Hang on!" Her wingman's voice sounded small over the speaker in her helmet.

She pushed her stick forward and urged her craft into a dive, when she remembered that horrible dream, and abruptly yanked back on the stick. The Zeke, who'd begun to dive with her was momentarily left behind as her Corsair surged upward. Bettie kept flying straight up into the air, bolting out of the pack of fighting planes, the Zero on her own tail now struggling to keep up. As long as she could keep climbing, she was safe, but if she turned out, he'd have her.

"Bettie, come back down! You're going to stall!" Pappy hollered over the speakers in her helmet. Other alarmed cries echoed him, but she was flying blindly, just trying to get away.

Suddenly, she had one clear thought. She could play chicken. It was something she and her flight schoolmates would do in the trainers sometimes, just to scare their instructors. She pushed her bird as hard as she could towards the sky, until it seemed to hang for a moment by a thread, before stalling. The world went eerily quiet as the engine choked and quit. Bettie pulled back further on the stick as her Corsair arced over backwards into a graceful dive. Her stick was barely responding with the power cut, and for a moment, she thought it wouldn't work. She found a little more strength to pull with and the plane pointed its nose straight to the ocean. The pilot of the Zero, who was not expecting that to happen at all, struggled to get out of her way as suddenly a very angry Corsair with a very crazy pilot was falling towards him.

She raked the Zero without remorse as she dove towards him. The plane fell away in flames, clearing her path. Now would be the hard part. She had no power, and Corsairs flew like a stone without it. She jammed the starter button, but to no avail. The prop just twitched and the engine coughed. She jammed it again, muttering under her breath,

"C'mon, little bitch. Start. I'm not dying here today. Start, damn you!"

The sixth, or maybe the seventh try—Bettie didn't know, she'd lost count—the engine turned over, and roared to life.

"Yes!" She whooped, pulling back on the stick to bring her nose up. She leveled off, and climbed back up to the rest of the Black Sheep. They'd dispatched the other Zekes while she was dealing with her own. She found her place next to Gutterman and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Hiya, guys! Didya miss me?" She chirped, feeling giddy that her half-baked, idiotic idea had worked, and that she wasn't currently sinking to the bottom of the ocean.

"Bettie, we're gonna have a talk on the ground. But for right now… don't you ever do that again. I'm too damn old to have a heart attack like that." Pappy's voice rang out in her helmet after a moment of silence.

"Hey, Pappy," she called, now that the rush had died away and she'd had a moment to evaluate her plane. "I've got a problem."

Gutterman, who had a decent view of her plane, added, "You're leaking oil fast, Bettie."

"Anyone else having issues?" Pappy called, looking around. A few reported some minor damages. Anderson was trailing hydraulic fluid. T.J. was having a hard time staying straight, but Greg thought that just might be T.J. "All right. I'll radio ComSouPac and let them know we got jumped. Let's go home, you guys."

The planes banked together gracefully as they turned back. After a few moments Gutterman broke the silence.

"Where on earth did you learn a trick like that?" He asked.

Bettie couldn't help but giggle from the residual stress, "You think that men are the only ones who play chicken in flight school?"

"You're somethin' else, you know that." He drawled.

"So I've heard." She said sarcastically.

A half hour later, she was able to limp the wounded plane down onto Vella La Cava, to face her brother's wrath. When she landed and taxied clear of the runway, she shut down and reached for the latch on her canopy. It was jammed, just like in her nightmare. All the stress of her near death experience came bubbling out of her in the form of hysterical laughter that dissolved into sobs as she waited to be freed.

**Yes, I did change her call from Little Lamb to Little Sister. I like it better, since Little Lamb is a little… I don't know, generic to me? I hope I didn't confuse anyone!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Sorry for the long wait! I've been a little busy and kind of stuck on this chapter. But here it is, and I'll try to be faster with the next one! 3**

Hutch was on her wing in an instant, working on her canopy. As soon as he got it unlatched, her threw it open and reached in to unbuckle her.

"Bettie! Are you okay? Did you get hurt?" He was frantic to get her out of that plane, and practically dragged her out.

"I'm okay! I'm okay! I didn't get hit!" She protested between sniffles. She unplugged her headset from the radio as he yanked her out of the cockpit. "Ouch! Hutch, I'm fine. Wait a second!"

"What the hell happened?!"

"We got jumped, I'm fine. The canopy was stuck and the dream and I just…" She made a helpless gesture with her hands. He let her go, safely on the ground. Boyington was striding towards them, and Bettie had a momentary thought of hiding behind Hutch from the tongue lashing that she was sure was in store for her.

She hung her head, and tucked one foot behind the other, looking for all the world like a little girl. She waited for him to say something, and looked up guiltily at him. She knew what she had done went against every rule of air combat, including abandoning her wingman and purposely disabling her plane. He stood in front of her for a moment before saying anything.

"You wanna tell me what happened?"

She looked around at the other pilots nearby, who were trying to look busy putting away their flight gear, but were also trying to overhear their conversation.

"Can I talk about it in private?" She asked, jerking her head towards the crowd. Boyington nodded in agreement.

"Probably best. Don't want to give these meatheads any ideas about stunts to pull."

* * *

"All right," Boyington sighed, sitting on his cot across from her. "What happened?"

She shifted a bit in the chair she was perched on. "Well…" She began, chewing her lip. How to explain that she watched her nightmare unfold, but she changed it.

"Remember when I had that nightmare? I woke up the whole damn island?" She laughed softly, shaking her head. He nodded, bidding her to continue. "Well, I dreamt that we got jumped, and I got separated from Jim, and there was this Zero that was just… he wouldn't let me go. He just kept chewing me up piece by piece, and I went to dive and…" She trailed off, struggling not to let him see her cry.

"So you pulled up." He stated, matter of fact. She looked at him, surprised.

"Look, it's not unheard of for pilots to dream about things like that, and you end up reliving them. I don't know what it is. Probably your subconscious or whatever pointing out where you're weak." He explained, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward. "To me, it sounds like you were running scared because you _knew_ you were gonna die. So you did the opposite of one thing you could change."

She nodded, relieved he understood.

"So why did you keep climbing? Did you mean to stall out?" Her brown eyes met his blue ones. He was gazing unflinchingly at her, and she looked away at the floor.

"At first, I was just running. I got a break where I could outrun that Zeke, and he couldn't catch up. And the higher I got, the clearer my head got. So I kept going until I had a plan." She swallowed the lump in her throat, her voice getting steadier.

"I'd never done it before outside a trainer plane, and the trainers we used had those electric starters—not like the shotgun ones on the Corsairs—so they were easier to kick over in midflight. But I _had_ done it, a few times…" Her hands began to move as she explained, illustrating what she'd done.

"See, you fly straight vertical until you stall, then you haul back as hard as you can on the stick. Once the power cuts, that is. You loop backwards, and get heading straight down. Sometimes we'd play chicken, and fly against each other, like that Zeke. But that's not…" She took a breath and continued. She was excited to explain the maneuver. It was exciting to teach a very seasoned pilot something that she knew and he didn't.

"And once you get to about where you wanna pull up, you hit the starter and once it catches, you haul back and climb to altitude again. 'Cept the Corsairs don't start well. So I went too low today." She blushed. "I swear I don't usually cut it that close. I don't have a death wish or anything."

"I'll say you cut it close. You looked about ready to land that damn bird on a reef!" Pappy laughed. He'd played plenty of chicken in his time, but even he didn't fly as crazy as she had that day.

"I promise I won't do it again, Pappy. I just got stuck." She mumbled, looking embarrassed. Her first time flying combat and she gave the whole squadron a heart attack.

"I just want to promise you won't tell those yahoos out there how to do it." The last thing he needed was for him to have a whole squadron flying like that.

"Deal." She grinned.

* * *

That afternoon, after a nap through the heat of the day, Bettie headed back out to help Hutch with the planes. She felt a little guilty bringing the one she'd flown back in such bad shape. She'd do her penance with a wrench and a smile, she supposed, and he'd forgive her. Mostly.

He didn't even say anything when she arrived, just handed her some tools and parts and pointed to her plane. She dutifully went to work, replacing the oil lines that had been ripped out. It was a particularly hot day, and she found herself in less clothes than normal. A cast off uniform shirt that Casey had torn the sleeve beyond repair had been given to her to do something with, so she'd removed the sleeves, and was now wearing it with her ever-stained flight suit rolled down around her hips. She tied the shirt around her ribs to get a little sun, since she was out in it anyways. While she could justify it as functional as much as she wanted, the truth was, it had become a trend with the women around the South Pacific, and it was one that she could actually wear. And she felt pretty cute.

She wasn't the only one who thought she looked pretty cute. T.J. had been taking pictures to send home when she caught his eye. He raised the camera and focused it on her. Through the lens, he lined up the perfect shot—her hair was draped softly across her shoulder as her braid unwound itself, and she was standing at the top of a ladder, bent slightly at the waist as she reached with a wrench into the engine. Her face was relaxed and she was smiling slightly as she worked. He snapped the picture and hoped it looked the way he saw it.

Bettie caught a glimpse of light glinting off of glass, and realized a second too late that it was T.J. with a camera that she'd seen. He was already lowering the device when she saw him. She debated on climbing down to scold him, but she took a deep breath, and kept working.

_He likes you, remember? Don't bite his head off._

He sauntered over, and stood in the shade of the plane, watching her work. She was straddling the nose now, reaching down into the engine.

"Why hello, Lieutenant Wiley." She greeted him with a charming smile. "What brings you out on this fine day?"

"Not much, Pilot Hutchinson, aside from to tell you that your kill was confirmed." He answered, just as breezily.

She stopped working. "It was confirmed?!" She pumped a fist in the air and whooped, before slinging a leg over the nose in front of her and slipping off the plane and landing with a thump. She felt remorse after attacking the _Kubitzu _because of how they had done it, but she felt nothing towards the pilot who'd tried his hardest to knock her out of the sky. It wasn't her fault that she'd turned the tables.

"Yep! Coastwatcher just confirmed it." He couldn't help but smile back at her. Her grin was so infectious when she really opened up, and he remembered how it felt to get his first kill—well, his first Japanese kill.

Hutch called over from where he was working, "That better have been the one that chewed your bird to hell."

Bettie just waved a hand at him and he went back to work. He knew when she was dismissing him because he was being grumpy. He grumbled to himself, displeased about how things were going between her and T.J. Of all the pilots, it had to be him.

She realized now that she was standing awkwardly close to T.J., dressed much more scantily that she normally would ever be seen in. She looked at her dusty boots and blushed. "I, uh… I should get back to work. Boyle will need his plane flying when the nurses let him go…"

"Oh! Yeah! Sorry… I, uh, didn't mean to take you away from your work." He rubbed the back of his neck.

"No, no. It's okay. Thanks for telling me." She smiled shyly at him.

"You can stay if you want to…" She began, but at the same time he said,

"I can keep you company if you want."

When he realized he'd interrupted her, he stammered an apology, at the same time that she said,

"Yes."

"Okay!" He agreed, offering a hand to help her up the ladder.

She took his hand and allowed him to help her up, even though she'd been climbing up and down that ladder all day. As she climbed past him, he glanced away so she wouldn't feel like he was looking at her, er, tail assembly. Something caught his eye, though, and he snuck a peek. Neatly stitched to the left back pocket of her suit was a Black Sheep squadron patch. He was fairly certain that was not her doing, and that she hadn't noticed. The tiny stitches looked like something Casey would do, but the less-than-regulation placement suggested that Boyle, Anderson, or Gutterman had something to do with it too. He looked away again, trying to hide a smile.

Once he'd climbed up after her, he realized why the patch was there. She knelt on the nose of the plane, bent forward and reaching shoulder deep into the engine, the patch proudly on display to anyone passing by. He wondered just how long it had been there. Since Seona? The idea of her working bent over a Zeke with his squadron's patch jauntily perched on her can amused him greatly.

She glanced up at him sitting opposite of her, and noticed him smiling.

"What are you smiling about, Lieutenant Wiley?" She asked, arcing an eyebrow. She was playfully using his rank and last name, but at the same time, she hoped he'd figure out that she wasn't quite ready to be too terribly close with him.

"Oh nothing, Pilot Hutchinson. It's just a lovely day." He leaned back against the prop. He quickly sat back up right when he noticed Hutch a few planes down glaring at him and shaking his wrench reproachfully. Truth be told, while he was smiling at the patch, he sure wasn't going to tell her that it was there. He didn't want her to know he'd been looking. He hoped it was in his picture of her, though.

The ribbon that had been holding her braid together had given up, and was tangled in the end of a lock of hair. She set the wrench down and pulled the bow out, stuffing it in her pocket with a frustrated sigh. She swore one of these days she'd whack all her hair off, since it was always in the way. She didn't know how to style or cut it really, so she'd just let it grow, and kept it braided. But there was something about the humid tropics that made it defy her ribbons. Now, it fell in a wavy mess around her shoulders as she continued to work, and T.J. would later swear that it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

* * *

It was growing dark when they called it quits. There were no missions for a few days, so Hutch had decided that here was no point in working all night, and had shooed the couple off the airstrip so he could shut down the lights. T.J. offered Bettie his arm to walk back, and she tentatively took it. Soon though, his playful talk had her giggling and much more at ease. They had just gotten into camp, when Boyington linked his arm in her other arm and announced,

"Sorry, T.J., I'm cutting in."

T.J. dropped her arm and allowed Boyington to take her.

"Sure, Pappy. Go ahead." He agreed. He figured that the major had something to discuss. "I'll be at the Sheep Pen, Bettie, if you want to come by."

As T.J. walked away, Greg steered her away from the camp, "Fancy a walk?"

Bettie didn't really want to go for a walk, since she was tired and worn out from that morning, and devoting hours to fixing her plane in the aftermath, but she assumed that he had something to tell her.

"Sure, Pappy. What's up?" She asked, a bit tiredly. She hoped he'd be quick, so she could have a drink or two to take the edge of the day off, and go to bed.

"General Moore just wired me. Apparently trying to get you commissioned and assigned to combat duty is causing quite a stir." He laughed quietly.

"I tend to cause a stir no matter what I do." She sighed, wondering what he'd wanted.

"Point is, a bunch of brass is coming to Espritos for a hearing. They want to meet you face to face and go over why you should be commissioned." He looked over at her. "If I were you, I'd try to rack up another kill or two. You have about a two weeks."

"I don't… I got lucky with that Zeke. I don't know how to fly combat." She murmured. They were supposed to go over some maneuvers that morning, but they'd gotten jumped before they could.

"We'll have to teach you, then. We'll go up tomorrow afternoon and practice. All right?" He offered. He knew she would catch on quick, but she just needed a little experience.

She nodded, stifling a yawn. "Sure, Pappy. Sounds good."

He turned her back towards camp with a chuckle.

"Let me get you back to that fine Marine pilot you were with, then. After today, you could use a drink."

* * *

T.J. ordered two scotches as soon as he saw Bettie come through the door of the Sheep Pen. He swooped in and offered her the drink before anyone else could get her attention.

"What did Pappy want to talk to you about?" He asked, trying to sound casual. He seriously doubted that he needed to be jealous of his CO, but T.J. couldn't help but feel a little jealous whenever Bettie was concerned. He guided her to the table in the corner where they could have relative peace, and made sure to pull out her chair for her.

"Oh," She sipped her scotch, and made a face. They finally had some strong scotch back in stock, but she'd gotten accustomed to the watered down kind. "Washington wants to hold a hearing about my commission. He just let me know, and advised that I get some more kills. And some training."

"Training?" T.J. asked. Would it be too much to hope that Boyington would assign him to take her up and teach her?

"Pappy's taking me up tomorrow morning to learn a little bit, since, y'know, WASPs aren't exactly taught how to dogfight in flight school." She shrugged and gave him a rueful smile. "I don't think they ever expected us to end up out here."

Her finger trailed around the edge of the glass in front of her, making it ring softly. "To be honest, I'd rather not talk about it. I'm a bit nervous about it all."

At that moment, T.J. opened his mouth to suggest a new topic of conversation, and Gutterman, shoved his way into their conversation.

"So darlin'," He grinned, straddling the back of a chair and leaning his forearms on the back, "First confirmed kill. Mighty fine thing, ain't it?" He didn't miss the annoyed look that Wiley shot him. In fact, there was little else that pleased him more than annoying the lieutenant.

Bettie smiled slightly. She'd been hearing congratulations all day, even before it was confirmed. She drained her glass and set it back on the table before standing.

"Gentlemen, unfortunately, I've got an early day tomorrow. I'm off to bed for tonight." She punched Gutterman lightly on the shoulder. "Be quiet when you come in tonight, huh?"

He waved her off and grumbled, "Yeah, yeah."

She turned to go but turned back with a slight smile, "Thanks for the drink… T.J."

* * *

True to his word, Greg was in her tent shaking her awake as the skies grew pink with the dawn.

"No. G'way." She moaned, hiding her face in her pillow. It had been a very drunk and chatty Captain Gutterman who'd rolled in about 0230 and woken her up, and she was not going to get out of bed when it felt like she'd been asleep five minutes.

"Up and at 'em, sunshine. We've got birds to fly and Zekes to kill. You've got two minutes to get dressed and outside." He warned her, before leaving.

A few minutes later they were taking off. The sky was awash with pastels as the sun rose and Bettie craned her neck looking all around her in appreciation. Flying was something that she truly loved to do, and she tried not to think of the day when she'd be discharged and go back to life in that rundown little flat in Flint. When she was flying, she was graceful, and she didn't stick out.

Her reverie was interrupted by Boyington over the radio. "Ready to fly like a marine?"

"Do I have to?" She laughed. Boyington's bark of laughter rang out through her headphones.

"Well, at least learn how to fly combat."


	10. Chapter 10

**I have to admit, I was rather amused while watching "Presumed Dead" that on the map the Gutterman is measuring, Espritos is about two islands over from Vella. Espiritu Santu (which is what Espritos is based off of) is actually 800 miles away from Vella Lavella. However, it's much more convenient to annoy Lard from the next island over, I suppose!**

The two weeks passed far too quickly for Bettie's liking, and soon, she found herself getting ready to fly to Espritos Marcos for her hearing—albeit with a total of three kills under her belt. The Black Sheep had been good to her, and allowed her to finish off Japanese fighters that they had worn down. Of course, they wanted her to look good for the hearing, so they could keep their Little Sister flying with them. Hutch preferred that his little sister stay safely on the ground, but he couldn't deny that she didn't deserve her commission.

Bettie straightened her beret and checked one more time that all her insignias were in the right places. Her hair felt foreign in a neat bun instead of her typical braid. She picked up the purse that went with her uniform and took a deep breath. This was it. Outside the tent, all her friends were gathered, waiting for her to walk her to the plane. She wasn't going alone, of course. Greg and Jim were coming, as her superiors, and also her wingman. Boyington was bringing Casey along for safety, since he would be able to bail them out of the brig… just in case. She felt awkward in the WASP uniform. The Santiago blue would stand out against marine khaki. She was supposed to take pride in wearing her uniform, but she only ever did when she absolutely had to make the best impression possible. That hadn't happened often recently.

She stepped out of the tent and surveyed the crowd gathered. It wasn't unusual to see Casey in his formal uniform. He possibly was the only man in the outfit that was actually proud to be a marine. However, Bettie stifled a giggle at the sight of Gutterman all shined up and pressed.

"Jim? I almost didn't recognize you!" She exclaimed in mock surprise, pressing her hands against her cheeks.

"Bettie? Is that you? Darlin', you look like a girl!" He shot back, not missing a beat.

They exchanged grins. The pair had become fast friends, once they'd sorted out living together. After missions, they'd talked a lot in the darkness of their tent once the lights went out across camp. When they'd started, it'd been a way to pass the time before they fell asleep, but eventually they ran out of superficial small talk and had started on things like families and home. And since they spent much of their time together, they had a lot of time to talk. He'd told her about his little sisters and how he hoped he'd make it home to scare off their boyfriends when they were old enough, and she'd told him what it was like being raised by her brother and she hoped he'd be able to find a nice girl that wasn't scared off by her.

Boyington cleared his throat, "All right, you two. We got a plane to catch, and it's already oh-six-hundred. Wiley, you've got the con. Don't burn the place down while I'm gone, okay?"

T.J. threw up a sloppy salute with a lazy grin. "Yes, sir."

He'd quietly asked Boyington if he could accompany them, but Greg had decided that the least amount of troublesome pilots that he could get away with bringing was what he'd take. And since Casey and Gutterman had been summoned to testify at Bettie's hearing, they were the only ones going.

As the rest of the Black Sheep watched the DC-10 take off, Wiley looked around at the crew. "We'll take off at oh-seven-hundred hours."

* * *

When Bettie entered her hearing, she was overjoyed to find the entire 214 sitting in the audience of the hearing, along with a highly stressed looking Boyington. T.J. gave her a wink as she took her seat, and she found herself feeling considerably better. Gutterman sat to her left and gave her a reassuring half smile. They all knew she deserved to be commissioned. Now they just had to prove it.

The hearing dragged on with all the formalities and Bettie was feeling rather bored by the time it was her turn to speak. When it was, she moved to a seat at the center of the room in front of the panel of brass. Moore was on the panel, and she was thankful for that. He gave her a nod before the questioning began. He was pulling for her. She was asked to explain how she'd even ended up flying with the 214 in the first place.

"Well, sir… I joined up with the Women's Airforce Service Pilots about as soon as I turned eighteen, since my brother—Sergeant John Hutchinson, that is—was serving in the South Pacific and I was left alone…" She was eyeing the young officer typing frantically to make a transcript of what she was saying. She looked back to the panel and continued, "I finished flight school and earned my wings. I was give a chain of assignments that brought me further and further into the South Pacific a few months after I received my wings."

She swallowed the lump in her throat, "I was on an assignment to Espritos Marcos when I met a pilot in the Officer's club who was assigned to take a new Corsair out to the 214, where I knew my brother was stationed. He was rather intoxicated, however, so I volunteered to take the mission."

She decided to leave out the part about her drinking him under the table that night to get his orders and taking off the next morning with a splitting hangover. Judging from Moore's expression, however, she figured he knew what had happened.

"How noble of you." One of the generals on the board, a General Wilson, noted dryly.

She faltered a bit, but she could hear her guys shifting behind her and forged on. "I was shipped back to Espritos, and served another few months around the South Pacific before I was attached to VMF-214." All eyes cut to Boyington, knowing just who was responsible for that. "I served as the mechanic's pilot, flying test runs during maintenance and repairs. I flew my first combat mission on a mission out of Seona. I was picked up with the rest of the 214, including the dog and the mechanic. I was the photographer for the mission. When we flew our next mission, I filled in for Lieutenant Boyle, who was ill. The next several missions, I filled in for various pilots. And that's been the past few weeks."

There was some hushed discussion, before Colonel Lard asked, "And what makes you qualified for combat?"

"With all due respect, sirs, I'm trained on a wider variety of aircraft than Marine pilots are. And furthermore, I currently have three kills."

The questions continued along this vein until finally, Moore asked, "Miss Hutchinson, why are you so eager to serve as a combat pilot?"

She wasn't expecting anything like that, and was silent for a minute as she gathered her thoughts.

"Well, sir," She said at last, "Why shouldn't I? If men are allowed to fight and die for their country, then what says I shouldn't be able to, also?"

An awkward silence filled the room as the board shifted uncomfortably at her bluntness, before Moore ordered a recess.

* * *

Bettie was behind the building with a cigarette, trying to calm her nerves, when the rest of the Black Sheep found her. They crowded around her, congratulating her on answering the questions so well. She was feeling a bit crowded, but she accepted their praise with a blush.

"Thanks, guys, but we aren't anywhere near done. I just upset them a bit." She tried to explain over them, but they drowned her out. She could see Boyington coming towards them. He definitely didn't look happy to find that all of his squadron was on Espritos, when they should have been on Vella.

"Wiley!" He hollered when he got closer to the group. "What in the blue blazes is going on?"

The other pilots parted like the Red Sea to leave T.J. standing alone. The grin faded from his face and he looked down, avoiding Boyington's glare.

"Why are all of my pilots and all my damn planes on this island? We were just supposed to go, do the hearing, and come home. Now I've got a dozen of you to keep an eye on so I'm not fishing you all of the brig!"

His fists were clenched as he barked at his hapless crew. As if it wasn't stressful enough to try to get Bettie commissioned, what with the reputation of the 214, now he had the whole squadron invade the island against his orders. He just knew that he'd be dragging them out of bars and fights and the WACs' quarters all the next morning. Bettie stepped forward and rested a calming hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sure that they just wanted to show support. And I'm _sure_ that they'll be on their best behavior. Right, gentlemen?" She looked around at them, sternly. She was met with sheepish grins and nods of agreement. "So let's just get through this hearing so we can get back to Vella tonight."

* * *

After the hearing was finished, the board retired to discuss their decision.

"'Discuss.'" Snorted Gutterman in derision, "They're just going to drink their brandy and laugh at the girl who thinks she can fly, and they'll say later, 'After careful consideration, it has been decided that we will not allow Miss Hutchinson to be given a commission in this goddamn Marine Corps.'"

The other pilots nodded glumly as they made their way out into the tropical afternoon. The hearing had devolved into a pecking fest after the recess, spurred on by Bettie's comment that she should be allowed to fight, simply because the men were. Their case looked hopeless. The older men were not at all impressed by the gangly, eighteen year old girl that they were presented with. They were looking for an attractive, feminine mascot to parade around and increase morale. Not some yearling colt of a girl, with grease-stained fingernails and a blunt attitude.

"How about a well-behaved drink?" Boyington suggested, "I'm buying."

He may not have been the most orthodox commander, but he knew that a happy crew was key to any squadron. And to be honest, he needed one himself.

* * *

A few hours, and quite a few subdued drinks later, an ensign entered the club, and made his way straight to Boyington. The young officer bent down and quietly said something to the major, who listened intently.

"You don't say?" Boyington murmured, still listening. The officer straightened and left the club before the Black Sheep could start anything. He was under strict orders to not get involved with them.

"Hey, Lieutenant!" Greg called, a grin splitting his face. Most of the Black Sheep turned around, as well as quite a few others bearing lieutenant bars. "Not you! Lieutenant Hutchinson! Your commission just came through."

Bettie's head snapped up, and she looked over her shoulder at Boyington in surprise. He waved her over, and she swung off of her stool at the bar, where she'd been sandwiched between the two Bobs, Boyle and Anderson.

"My what?" She gasped, padding over. He handed her the sheet of paper that the ensign had brought with—her commission. She scanned the page, her lips moving slightly as she read.

"Second Lieutenant. I'm a second lieutenant." She whispered in awe. She still couldn't believe that they had approved her. The rest of the 214 crowded around her, crowing congratulations and slapping her on the back. She was still staring at the piece of paper in shock.

That night, the Black Sheep celebrated their newest member in their typical, boisterous fashion: picking fights, trying to drink the bar dry, and gambling away any pay that might have come their way. Even the normally-reserved Bettie joined in on the fun. Boyington seemed resigned to getting his squadron off the island without a stop in the brig, and decided to enjoy a few drinks, and then leave orders with Casey to handle the rest of them. He was getting too old to keep up with them.

Gutterman, T.J., and Anderson challenged each other to see who could outdrink whom while playing cards. Bettie was playing with them, too. Well, they were trying to explain what the rules were to her and how to play, but she wasn't betting, since she had to keep asking questions about her hand. And despite the fact that she'd protested about being dragged into their drinking game, she found herself with a bottle of rum and a glass at her elbow.

"Here, Casey. Help me with this." She pulled the stammering lieutenant down into the seat next to him and nudged the bottle towards him.

"I-I really can't. Pappy said I have to make sure no one gets in trouble." He protested. It wasn't really fair of Boyington to leave sweet Larry Casey in charge of his band of pirates. They never listened to him since he was the youngest. She poured him a glass, and set it firmly in front of him.

"Drink. I'll help you keep them in line." She gave him a firm look. He balked under her glare and picked up the drink.

Casey was the first to go, after only a few drinks, nodding off over his glass. Bettie moved it out of the way so when his head finally came to a rest on the table, he wouldn't break it. She'd been drinking from the bottle the whole night, anyways. Anderson was the next to go, struggling valiantly to keep his eyes open and not slur his words. Jim and T.J. were both flushed and laughing more freely than usual, but they both had plenty of practice being drunk. As they'd explained at the start, it's not just who lasted the longest, it's who drank the most for the longest before passing out. Bettie was feeling fantastic. It had gotten a little harder to light her cigarette with each one that she smoked, since everything looked a little further away than it really was, but she was laughing and animated as they played. T.J. excused himself to the restroom, and never returned.

"He's sleeping it off in the head." Gutterman explained when she expressed concern when he didn't return, "It's what he does."

The two continued to play and drink, and she was keeping up fairly well at both activities. Her physical size was an advantage to her for once. By the end of the night, Bettie had won one of Jim's paychecks, after winning back the two of her own that she'd lost earlier. It probably had something to do with the inebriated state of her fellow players, over her skill, but she couldn't help but be happy. A few more drinks and a cigarette later, and she realized that Jim was about done for the night. A few minutes later, and he was out.

Jim was asleep on her shoulder, leaving a slowly spreading wet patch of drool on her light blue uniform shirt. Not that she cared. She wouldn't have much use for it by tomorrow, when she would get her marine uniforms and insignia. She finished the last bit in her bottle, bringing her to the lead. She was in no shape to go anywhere but to sleep anyways, so what was a little more? She shifted a bit more and leaned her head back, closing her eyes. She'd hate herself tomorrow, but tonight, she'd wanted to enjoy herself, and cut loose a little bit. And boy, she had.

* * *

The next morning, Greg found all his Sheep just where he'd left them. Scattered around the Officer's club. He'd recruited a few enlisted men to help him rouse them and pile them all into the truck he'd commandeered. They were in no shape to fly home, but he'd dump them in some bunks for a few hours and let them sleep it off. Especially since nearly all of his planes were now parked on the landing strip on Espritos, and he needed them to fly them back.

Bettie was awoken by a stranger in fatigues shaking her. "C'mon, Miss. Wake up. You shouldn't be seen like this." He coaxed. He obviously was concerned that others finding her passed out in a pile of marines would harm her reputation.

"It's lieutenant…" She yawned and squinted, trying to make out his rank through bleary eyes, "… Corporal."

He snatched his hands off of her shoulder. It was one thing to touch a male officer, but a female one? No thank you. He liked not being court martialed. He moved on to wake up others, as far away from the lady lieutenant as he could. He hated it when the female officers left off their insignia. How was a guy supposed to keep track of them all?

Bettie stretched a bit, but still had Gutterman fast asleep against her. She nudged him a bit, trying to rouse him.

"Jim. Wake up."

He grumbled and nuzzled deeper into her shoulder.

"No… c'mon. I want my arm back." She shook him a little more, trying to get out from under him. There were another two pilots between her and the end of the booth though, so it really was futile. She started shaking all the men in reach.

"C'mon, guys. Wake up."

They were slowly beginning to stir with the activity in the room, but not fast enough for Boyington. He chuckled as the few that had been dragged to their feet stumbled around, being herded out the door by the enlisted men and into the truck. He kept shaking and smacking their backs as he waded through the room, booming morning greetings.

"Gah… Pappy…" Bettie groaned, rubbing her eyes. "Why are you shouting?"

Her head was throbbing, and she felt like her mouth was full of cotton. Around her, other Black Sheep were covering their ears and holding their heads, all in the same shape that she was in. One by one they were half pulled, half helped out of the booth and into the truck.

"Not that one. I need her." He took Bettie's arm from around the shoulder of the corporal that had woken her and draped it around his own. She didn't look so great, but he needed to get her uniform and insignia from the PX before he let her pass out again. The tall girl leaned against him, groaning softly.

"Take the rest of them and toss them into whatever bunks you have free." He instructed the men helping. They answered with a "Yes, sir!" and continued to work.

"And you, we're going to go pour some coffee in you." He chuckled as he supported her out the door.

He deposited her in a chair at the mess hall and quickly returned with the pot of coffee and two cups. She was looking a little more awake, at least, but still cradling her head in her hands.

"Why did you let me drink that much?" She whined as he poured her coffee and shoved it under her nose. Some of the dark liquid sloshed over the rim and onto the table.

"Believe me, I tried. You would have none of it." He sipped his own coffee, letting out a satisfied sigh. "You were in true Black Sheep form last night, picking fights and all."

"Oh god…" She groaned. "I don't want to hear this." Her head drooped lower until her nose was practically in her coffee.

"Oh yes. After you After you drank poor Casey under the table you were quite upset about a quiet comment from one of the WAACs in the room about women pilot. Almost came to blows with her date, until you stood up and scared the snot out of him. I've never seen anyone leave a bar that fast. Then you proceeded to sit back down, and out drink Anderson, Wiley, and Gutterman. Quite a feat, I might add. I've never seen anyone drink Jim under the table. And you won his paycheck next month." He relished in telling her about her night.

"Nooooo…" Her voice was soft, muffled by her hands.

"Drink your coffee." He scolded, before continuing, "Yep. You drank until everyone else was passed out. And then you fell asleep on Jim. Quite a night for you."

She was drinking her coffee now, but her headache still persisted. As soon as she finished one cup, he poured her another until she had most of a pot. By the end of it, she was shifting somewhat uncomfortably, but feeling much more awake, even if her headache persisted.

"Meet me at the PX in ten minutes. I imagine you need a little time after last night." He said, excusing himself from the table. "And you did just drink a whole pot of coffee."

* * *

As ordered, she was at the PX ten minutes later, feeling no better than before. Hangovers were only cured by sleep, in her opinion. She'd been able to wash her face, but she didn't have the patience or the hairbrush to deal with her hair, so she stuffed it down her collar and clapped her beret on, which miraculously hadn't been lost the night before.

"Well don't you look like a ray of sunshine, Lieutenant?" Boyington chirped upon seeing her. He held the door for her, and she shot him a death glare and stalked into the PX past him. She'd let him handle the details of getting her uniforms issued. She was hung over, she was in a skirt and heels, she didn't care. She stood and let her measurements be taken and kept her mouth shut when the officer in charge mentioned that it was lucky she was so straightly shaped, as she'd fit a male uniform just fine. A half an hour later, her temper was about boiled over from the officer's comments and Boyington bundled her out of the PX, a stack of various pieces of uniforms and another flight suit neatly folded in her arms.

"Now can I go back to sleep?" She muttered as he hustled her away from the PX.

"Two more hours." He said tightly. While she was being fitted at the PX, he'd heard the MPs discussing Colonel Lard and how he was going to get those lousy Black Sheep this time. He was going to get the rest of his pilots poured into their birds and beat it home before they could be grounded.

"Two hours?!" She whined, but the look on his face stopped her. "Oh. Let's go get the guys."

She realized that he knew something was up, and wanted to get off the island, now. She helped him get the rest of the squadron out of bed and to the strip. She wasn't too worried about their flying, since it wouldn't be the first hungover flight that they'd ever taken. In the scramble, Boyington directed her to a Corsair to fly home. She climbed up on the wing, fighting her pencil skirt and pumps to do so. One of the passing pilots planted a hand on her behind and boosted her the rest of the way up with a yelp from her. In the cockpit was a helmet and Mae West, and she donned them, before flipping through a quick preflight check and starting up.

In a few moments, the little blue Corsairs trailed after the DC-10 like ducklings, and Bettie had a chance to count the planes. "Uh, Pappy?" She called uncertainly over the radio, "We have one bird too many."

"Oops." Greg responded, deadpan. "I guess we'll have to give it a good home."

"Am I flying a stolen bird?" She gasped. Her first flight as an officer, and it looked like it would be her last.

"Borrowed… permanently. We needed an extra. Got a new pilot." Gutterman's voice crackled through the air. "They weren't using it anyhow. I checked last night. Pilot landed it and walked off. Hasn't been seen since."

"Oh…" Bettie played with the controls a little bit, checking the plane's response. It felt quite agile under her touch. "Can I have it? Pretty please?" She giggled, keying her mic so the rest of the squad could hear.

"Why do you think we took it, you meathead?" Boyington snickered. "Little Sister needs her toy."

* * *

Meatball and Hutch were waiting patiently as each Corsair touched down and rolled into the line up. He'd wanted to see his sister and ask her how it went. As much as he didn't like the whole ordeal, he hoped she'd won. For her sake, at least. He counted more planes than had left his care though, and he hoped that it was a good sign. They always could use a spare plane, anyways. He scanned the line up, trying to figure out which one she had flown. Pappy, Casey, and Gutterman climbed out of the DC-10, so she wasn't there. She must have had one of the Corsairs.

Even with a helmet and a Mae West, he spotted her quickly in her WASP blues. He trotted over, Meatball chugging along behind him. He came alongside her plane just in time to dodge a pair of black leather pumps that came hurtling out of the cockpit, followed by her stocking clad feet as she wormed her way out, cursing her skirt the whole time. Hutch helped her down, trying to avoid her flailing feet.

"Whoa, there." He laughed as he set her down. "How did it go, Stretch?"

She set her hands on his shoulders and looked solemnly into his eyes. "That's Lieutenant Stretch, to you, Sergeant. And I've been in this damned skirt for over twenty-four hours, I am hung over, and I am in desperate need of a shower. And so help me God, if you get in between me and that shower."

He watched her pad away in her stocking feet, pumps in one hand, and helmet in the other, and he adjusted his hat on his head in confusion. Just what had happened? He thought that they would come right back after the trial. He heard Boyington calling for him, though, and turned to meet the major.

"Yo." He answered, catching up to the older man.

"Listen, I got something I need you to do…" Boyington began, lowering his voice to discuss his plans.

Hutch nodded as he listened to the covert plans that Boyington had in mind. "Yeah, Pappy. I can do it now."

"Good boy." Boyington patted the mechanic's shoulder. "If you need help, ask whoever you think best for it."

* * *

Bettie was in the wooden stall that passed for a shower on the island when she heard heavy footsteps approaching through the bushes. It had become habit now for everyone to stomp down the path to the shower to alert anyone in it of their approach. It only took one time of Bettie nearly walking in on poor Casey before that rule was announced to the camp. Casey still made sure to announce when he'd be showering, just in case.

"I'm in here!" She called to let the approaching party know to turn around. She was too tall for the short walls of the shower, and if they came around the corner, they'd catch an eyeful. The footsteps stopped, and she heard Anderson's cheerful voice.

"Whoops! Sorry, Bettie. Looking for Meatball. Got a bone for him."

"Well, he's not here, sorry!" She had sunk down a bit to hide, as she heard footsteps again. "Bob! He's not here!"

"That's not me, it's Bobby."

"What's the hold up? Is there someone in the shower?" She heard Boyle ask.

"Yeah, Bettie is." Anderson answered him.

"Oh. Sorry, Bettie!" Boyle called from behind the bushes.

"Is Bettie in the shower?" T.J.'s voice joined the conversation.

"Yeah, she is." The two Bob's chorused.

Yet another voice, Casey's, cut in. "Aw man, are you all waiting for the shower?"

"Not me, I'm just looking for Meatball." Anderson replied.

"We are." Wiley and Boyle muttered.

"Aw, dang it!" Bragg grumbled, coming up on the crowd of guys.

"You all are, and if you don't scram, I'm never getting out! It's hard to feel like you have privacy when I can hear you all chattering away like birds in the bushes!" She finally shouted, feeling frustrated.

"Well, sorry!" T.J. called back exasperatedly.

"Don't you start with me, Wiley!" She snapped, rinsing out her hair. So much for a relaxing, tepid shower.

"I still outrank you, Hutchinson."

"And I'm still taller than you. And if you wanna compare anything else, you're welcome to it, _after_ I finish my shower. Now get outta here!"

Grumbling, they all retreated, except Anderson, who'd already wandered away in search of the squad's pet. Bettie wrung out her hair in relative peace, and toweled herself off before dressing in her favorite flight suit and tee shirt. Just perfect for going straight back to bed.

* * *

Back in her tent, she toed off her boots and socks, and curled up on her cot to relax. She wasn't feeling quite so sleepy anymore, now that her hangover had worn off. She glanced over at her roommate, who was reading. He was always reading. He traded books around the South Pacific like they were black market silk stockings. With lots of downtime, books were a popular diversion.

"What are you reading?" She asked, plumping her pillow a bit.

He didn't look up from his book as he answered, "_For Whom the Bell Tolls_, by Hemingway."

"What's it about?" She snuggled into her bed a little more. Sometimes he'd read aloud if she pestered him enough.

"Spanish Civil war. Look, I'm still too hungover to read to you, darlin'. Why don't you get a book for yourself if you're so bored?"

She made a face. "I'm not a great reader. I don't pay attention very well."

Jim tented his book on the floor next to his cot to hold his place, and reached underneath the bed to rummage around. He emerged with what he'd been looking for. He tossed the book across the tent at her.

"Here. Try this one. I think you'd like it."

She glanced at the cover. _Farewell, My Lovely_ it read. This sounded more sappy than she'd enjoy, and she looked dubiously at Gutterman.

"Just read it. It's a murder mystery. You'll like it." He urged, picking up his own book.

Grudgingly, she opened the book, and flipped through the few title pages to the start. The words blurred together like they always did for her. Just little grey squiggles. She moved the book closer to her face and squinted as she struggled to make out the words. Her lips moved slightly as she made out one word at a time. Slowly, she moved the book further and further from her face as the words grew clearer and clearer. By the time she was holding it as far away as she could, she could almost make out the words clearly. After a few pages of moving the book around, trying to read, Gutterman interrupted.

"Darlin', you can't read that, can you?"

"I can read!" She protested, casting him a glare.

He sighed softly at her defensiveness, "I mean, you can't see that to read it, can you?"

"Of course I can! Don't be silly. I'm just a bit hungover, that's all." She turned back to the book and pretended to read, turning the pages occasionally.

She was only six pages in, and it already didn't make sense. She wasn't going to admit that, though. The next thing she knew, he was taking the book out of her hands and holding it open further away than she was able to.

"Can you read it now?" He asked, watching her face. She squinted and shook her head, and he moved it further back until she finally nodded.

By that point the book was several feet away. If anyone knew that she couldn't read her instruments, she'd lose her wings. To be honest, she had only the faintest idea of which blurry circle measured what on her panel.

"How do you fly?" He asked, astonished.

"I look out the window?" She scoffed. She tended to judge most of her flying by who was around her. "Please don't tell anyone. You know I can fly fine. I've been flying for almost eight months now…"

"I won't, I won't." He sat at the end of her cot. "Have you always…?" He trailed off, not sure what to call it.

She shrugged, "Pretty much."

He shook his head. It completely boggled him that anyone could get to her age and not know that they needed glasses. "I can't believe you can't read."

"I can read, okay?! Just not things that are close to me." She rubbed her eyes.

She didn't know why she was explaining this all to him. She stood up abruptly. "Just don't tell anyone, okay?" She grunted before leaving the tent. Gutterman left as soon as she was out of sight to find Casey. If anyone could get ahold of reading glasses, it would be the blonde Lieutenant.

* * *

"So, about that comparing stuff…" T.J. grinned as he slung an arm around her shoulder. She shoved it back off.

"Not in the mood, Wiley."

He raised his eyebrows at her words and frowned a bit. She sure was in quite a mood. He wondered what was wrong with her. Maybe womanly things. If that was the case, he didn't want to know. But still, his task for the day was to keep her away from the airstrip until Hutch could finish his job that Boyington had given him. He had to find a way some how.

"Listen, I gotta run some paperwork over to the hospital that got sent here by accident. Wanna come?" He asked hopefully. Maybe if he was more sweet, and less cocky she'd say yes. "I'd really appreciate the company."

Bettie shrugged. "Sure, I guess." She didn't have much better to do, but she _had _wanted to see her brother. Maybe she'd go see him tonight, after it cooled off. Then maybe she'd be able to spend some time with him when he wasn't working.

"Great!" T.J. grinned, tossing her the keys to the company jeep. "You drive!"

Bettie fumbled to catch the keys, blushing. Her? Drive? She'd never driven before. There wasn't any need living where she did. She walked to school or took busses if she needed to go far. She couldn't think of anyone in her neighborhood who even had a car when she was growing up.

She sheepishly handed them back. "I think it's better if you do. I've never learned."

He looked at her in confusion. "You never learned?"

She couldn't help but giggle. Since they found themselves doing the same job in the same place, sometimes the Black Sheep forgot how much each other's backgrounds varied. Some were wealthy, some not. Some in college, some were juvenile delinquents. They weren't even all men, now that she'd joined.

"No, T.J. I grew up in the inner city. I didn't need to drive." She looked back over her shoulder at him as she continued walking. He'd stopped to process the fact that she'd never driven.

"Like, never ever? You've never driven?" He shook his head, catching up. He just couldn't imagine it. In his world, every household had at least one car.

"I didn't even know anyone who owned a car 'til I left for WASP training." She waited for him to catch up, before continuing, side by side with him to the jeep.

"Well, do you wanna learn? I'll teach you." He asked, dangling the keys in front of her. She eyed the jeep.

"I dunno, do you drive better than you fly?" She teased. He rolled his eyes.

"I know, I know. T.J. can't fly, T.J. has flamed more American planes than Japanese." He grumbled as he sat in the drivers seat and turned over the engine. Everyone always teased him, but he was still in the air, wasn't he? And with three _Japanese_ kills to boot.

"I'm sorry. I would like it very much if you'd teach me how to drive." She touched his shoulder. He looked at her with distrust, waiting for her to crack another joke. "Please?"

He scooted over to the passenger seat and patted the driver's seat. "All right. Hop in."

She sat and looked at him expectantly, waiting for directions. He explained what all the pedals were and he showed her how to shift. She followed his directions and put the shifter into each gear, before finally he announced that she was ready to go.

"Easy! Easy! Let the clutch out and slowly press the gas!" He encouraged, as she sputtered to a halt after a few feet, stalling out.

Slowly, she managed to get the jeep out of camp, jolting and bucking the whole way as she tried to figure out the clutch. T.J. took advantage of the situation to lay his hand over hers on the shifter, and guide her through the gears as they got going. He moved on his seat to sit closer to her, his shoulder bumping hers. So she could hear his directions, of course. Not so he could touch her. Of course not. He was a gentleman… usually.

They made it safely across the island and to the hospital in far less time than it had taken Bettie to walk it before. She decided she needed to learn how to drive on her own. She'd begun to get the hang of it near the end of the trip, and had mad T.J. sit back on his side and let her drive. He'd settled into his seat and watched her from the corner of his eye. Her dark hair had begun to free itself from her braid, and was whipping around her face in the wind. She glanced at him and color crept across her cheeks when she noticed him watching. She was still blushing when she stopped outside the hospital, the jeep jerking as it stalled. She'd forgotten to put in the clutch.

"Oops." She mumbled, turning the key and setting the brake. She'd let T.J. drive them back.

"I'll be right back. Just gotta drop this off." He pulled the papers out of the manila folder they were in, and got out, leaving his cap on the seat. He hoped that having Bettie waiting for him would allow him to escape a little more easily, especially since there was that one nurse that would not give up on him.

He was back out in two minutes, much to his relief, and found that Bettie had moved to the passenger seat. "Your turn to drive."

He swung into the driver's seat and headed back towards the base. He couldn't help but keep glancing over at her. She'd taken his cap from the seat when she'd moved and was now wearing it, the brim low over her eyes against the bright sun. He thought it looked much better on her.

"Lieutenant Wiley, if you keep looking over here, you're going to go off the road." She commented lightly, inspecting her nails. Grease-stained, as always.

He jumped when she spoke, veering slightly. "Sorry." He mumbled, correcting the vehicle.

"Can you do me a favor and drop me at the airstrip? I promised Hutch I'd be back later when we landed." She asked. Her hair was in her face and she swatted it away in annoyance.

T.J. scrambled for an excuse why he couldn't. He didn't know if Hutch was done. "Uh, why don't you eat lunch first? You haven't eaten anything since yesterday." He suggested, "Then you can just head back with him after lunch?"

She grunted in agreement. "You're right. I should eat before he puts me to work."

T.J. was relieved that she agreed. He'd hate to have to stop her from going.

Across the island, Hutch was putting the finishing touches on his work. It was so hot out, he was sure that it would be dry by the time he got back from mess.

"Thanks for the help, French." He said, slipping down from his perch on the wing of Bettie's new plane. French gave him a thumbs up and started towards camp. With the scramble that morning, he'd missed breakfast, and felt like he was going to starve to death on the way to camp. Hutch trailed after him, looking at the plane one more time over his shoulder.


	11. Chapter 11

It wasn't 'til the next morning that Bettie was able to get out to the strip. The night before she'd ended up going to the beach with Hutch, who'd begged off of going back to the strip. He practically lived there, he complained, and he didn't want to go back unless he had work to do. So they rounded up a group to accompany them to the beach for the evening. Bettie did love being able to go to the beach any time she wanted, and that the water was warm. She'd been once or twice to Lake St. Claire, but it was nothing like this. As much fun as last nigh had been though, Bettie was eager to go look over her new bird.

"Hutch! Hutch!" She hissed, peeking through the flap of his tent.

"Go away, Stretch. I'm not getting up." He groaned, laying his forearm across his eyes.

"Please?" She pouted, "I miss you."

"You just wanna go play with your plane, and you don't know where I keep the wrenches." He guessed, sitting up. It was true. She'd gotten up extra early to get to the field, but she couldn't find the tools she wanted, so she'd come back to wake him up.

"But you can come play with me." She gave him a sweet smile. He reached for a tee shirt and slowly pulled it on over his head.

"It's not playing for me. It's my job." He looked at the watch on the crate that served as a nightstand. "Can it wait 'til after breakfast? I'm hungry."

"Good ol' Hutch. Always hungry." She ducked as he threw a boot at her and left him to get dressed.

She was up earlier than Anderson, who had breakfast detail that morning. She figured she could be nice and at least get the water boiling for him before he got up. Lighting the stove was such a pain. She got started on breakfast and a few minutes later, Hutch sauntered over, yawning. He flopped down in the shade nearby and yawned again.

"Between you and Meatball, I'll never sleep in again." He complained.

"Oh, you hush." She scolded. The water was coming to a boil, and she hoisted a sack of quick-cook oats on her shoulder, dumping some into the pot. "Go take a shower and wake yourself up, you wet blanket."

Grumbling, he scrambled to his feet and headed off. Come to think of it, he could use one. He wasn't quite sure the last time he had one, since the days seemed to blur together when he was working round the clock. She kept cooking, humming to herself a tune that had been on the jukebox on Espritos two nights before. She heard approaching footsteps as Anderson rounded the corner.

"Hiya! Good morning." He gave her a friendly grin. He was probably the biggest morning person she'd ever met. "Thanks for getting that started for me."

She gave him a smile and continued to stir the oats. He started working on mixing the egg powder with condensed milk and water, as she'd shown them all. It made a big difference in the edibleness of the eggs.

"Good morning, Meatball! Look what I saved you for breakfast."

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Anderson hand a hock bone to the dog with a pat. He wiped his hands on a towel as he straightened up, watching the dog disappear into the bushes with his treat. She could hear T.J. and Casey's voices through the jungle as they headed to go fishing. They'd been talking about it all week. She also could hear the shower running, and a sharp yelp from her brother as he stepped into the cold water. And as always, snores resonated from the dozens of men in their tents. It was a beautiful Sunday morning, and she was looking forward to possibly flying a bit that afternoon.

Suddenly, Meatball began to bark. Bettie looked up, but she figured he was barking at Casey and T.J. When the barks turned to snarls, she set down the spoon and looked worriedly at Anderson.

"Meatball? Meatball!" He hollered, looking after where the dog had gone.

The growling ended abruptly with a pained yelp. Anderson and Bettie took off after the dog, hoping he wasn't hurt. They both stopped short though at the sight they found. A troop of Japanese soldiers in marine uniforms were all staring down the barrels of their rifles at them. Meatball lay at their feet, making pathetic whimpers. Bettie went for the dog, to see if he was all right, and every rifle was suddenly trained on her. She raised her hands slowly, and Anderson stepped in front of her, protecting her. There was a crashing sound as Hutch burst into the clearing, obviously following Meatball's cry.

"Hutch, no!" Bettie cried out, but it was too late.

The butt of a rifle met with his head and he dropped like a sack of bricks. Anderson, who had moved to stop him, met a similar fate. She flinched but kept her hands up as they all looked back to her. She couldn't help anyone if she got hurt herself. She could hear Boyington calling the pooch, but his voice cut off abruptly, too. The soldiers were shouting at her and one yanked her arm, roughly spinning her around, and she felt a bayonet press into her spine. She was shoved forward towards camp, and she walked, glancing nervously back as she saw them drag her brother and Anderson along. The soldiers left Meatball in a heap, and Bettie felt a wrench in her chest at the sight. But all she could do now is keep her hands over her head and walk. As she came into camp, she saw the rest of the squadron gathered with their hands behind their heads. Her heart sunk even more. There'd be no help. A shove from behind sent her stumbling into Gutterman. He caught her, but was rewarded with a sharp jab of a rifle butt from one of the Japanese for moving. Bettie recovered her footing, and lined up next to him, hands on her head.

She bit down on her lip as they dropped her brother and Anderson in a mud puddle. Also on the ground was French, who bore a nasty goose egg. He was still though. All around her was shouting and she just ducked her head, waiting to be shoved and prodded some place new.

_Please let them not kill us._

* * *

The soldiers had been so quiet taking over the camp that hardly anyone had woken up until they were roused from their beds. Gutterman had felt a hand on his wrists, which were over his head, and sleepily opened his eyes. He'd figured it was Bettie, since she often put a hand on his arms while waking him, after he'd startled awake once and popped her in the nose. Much to his surprise though, a different raven-haired "marine" was looking down at him, and he was nose to muzzle with the Japanese soldier's rifle. He slowly sat up, and allowed them to push him put of the tent. They gestured to Bettie's empty cot and said something he didn't understand. Jim spread his hands and shrugged in a universal "I don't know" gesture. They were looking for her, but he didn't even know that she'd gotten up. All around, he could hear surprised sounds as the rest of the Black Sheep awoke their unlikely visitors.

Jim picked up his cowboy hat on the way out the door, setting it on his head. Where was that fool girl?

A moment after he joined the rest of the group, a few more soldiers herded Bettie out of the jungle behind mess, dragging along Anderson and Hutch. He was relieved to see that she wasn't hurt, despite the terrified expression on her face. She'd been making breakfast, but the look of the towel tucked down the front of her pants for a makeshift apron. The soldier steering her gave her a hard shove that would have made anyone stumble, but made the camp's uncoordinated darling tail over teakettle into Gutterman. He received a sharp blow to the side for moving to help her and he grunted in pain. She was all right though, so he put his hands back on his head.

* * *

She didn't understand what the soldiers were saying, but the one in command was asking for Boyington. Bettie was herded along with the others to the Sheep Pen, and she shuffled into the building with the group. She just had to keep her head down so the would leave her alone. That's all she had to do, and that's all she was going to do. She took a seat between Gutterman and French, after they dragged him through the door, keeping slumped to draw less attention.

"Don? How's your head?" She whispered softly, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

Outside, reveille played. She'd never heard the tune played on this island. It must be the Japanese trying to make things look normal, she figured. He groaned softly, still coming to. Checking to make sure no one was watching, she gently probed the protrusion that was beginning to bruise. She was relieved that the bone underneath was still intact. The swelling was going outward, which she guessed was good too. It would be better if a doctor could help him, but for now, she thought he'd be okay.

"Hutch, Bob? How are you guys?" She whispered, leaning over to check her brother, who was sitting at the next table over. He had a nasty cut, which worried her. It had gotten dirty when they dumped him in the mud outside. Maybe they'd let her clean it soon.

"I'm okay." They whispered back. The whole squadron shifted uneasily, eying their guards.

The soldiers returned with Boyington soon. He slowly moved around the room, gathering his clothes and checking on his crew. Once he was satisfied that they were okay, just hungry and sore, he addressed them quietly.

"These monkeys must want something from us. Otherwise they would've shot us in our underwear. They want everything to look normal as possible, that means they're gonna keep us alive." Slowly, the men began dressing, moving carefully. "Now this is an order. I want you guys to cooperate with them, until we find out why they're here."

One of the soldiers said something to the other, and left the building. Bettie gathered up her clothing slowly. Hers still had the creases in it from being folded. She'd never worn it. The soldier returned momentarily with his commander.

"You were warned. No talking!" He snapped, looking around the room with a glare. He noticed Bettie holding her uniform shirt, and he snatched it away.

"Uniforms on soldiers only!" He growled, before looking around, "She is… cook? Prostitute? Yes?" He asked the men.

"She is Lieutenant." Bettie answered, her voice dangerously low. The Black Sheep knew that tone, but the Japanese did not. She was ready to kill someone.

Saguchi threw back his head and laughed, genuinely amused. "She is Lieutenant? Woman Lieutenant? American women have no honor. She fly fighter plane, too? Hahaha!"

Bettie took a deep breath, willing herself to remain quiet. There was no need to make a bad situation worse. She took her shirt back from him carefully, not wanting to startle the nervous looking guards. When she had her uniform back in her hands, every single Black Sheep in the room pointedly turned their back to allow her privacy to change, leaving the Japanese soldiers still watching her. When it was obvious that they would not afford what they saw as a morally loose, barbaric woman any common courtesy, she began to change regardless. Bettie pulled her shirt off over her head, staring down Saguchi. If he was trying to humiliate her by watching, she wasn't going to let him know how degrading it felt. Besides, she lived with men. She'd given up her shyness months ago.

Standing tall, she shrugged her uniform shirt on and buttoned it, checking her insignia and wings. She still wore her silver wings, since the quartermaster was ordered not to issue her the brass ones because she had not gone through the fighter pilot school. She loved her silver wings, though, so she didn't care in the slightest. Finally, she tightened her belt after finishing dressing, not breaking eye contact with the Colonel for a second. By the end, she noticed him struggling to keep his hard expression, and he looked decidedly uncomfortable.

"You will sit with your hands on your heads!" He barked, before hurrying out the door. The marines took a seat uneasily, looking to Boyington.

"I'm for getting this over one way or another, Pappy." whispered French.

"I've got two wildcards—Casey and T.J. Let's wait and see how they fall." Boyington muttered. He wasn't ready to let half or more of his men die needlessly.

Gutterman bumped Bettie's elbow with his own. "Darlin', I can't believe you did that. Did you see his face by the end?"

"We have one clothesline on this island. Everyone has seen my underwear, Jim." She retorted under her breath.

"But not on you." He waggled an eyebrow playfully, and she snorted as she stifled a laugh. The guard threw a menacing look their way.

There was a thumping and shuffling under the floorboards, and she glanced down. Was it Meatball? Was he okay after all? There was a knothole in the floor between her feet that had never been patched, even though a chair leg fell through it every so often. And looking back at her was a bright blue eye. She'd never been happier to see it. T.J. was safe. She hoped Casey was with him. They hadn't been rounded up with the rest, but she didn't know if they'd been found and killed or left unnoticed.

* * *

T.J. pressed his eye to the hole in the floor above him, peering up to see if he could see what was going on inside. He and Casey were carefully scoping out the camp, trying to discover exactly what was happening. Looking through the hole, his heart leapt in his chest. He could see Bettie looking back at him with relief written all over her face. He knew she couldn't see him, but he still smiled reassuringly at her, before pressing his ear to the hole to listen.

What he heard shocked him. _General MacArthur? Coming to Vella?_ No wonder why things had been so strange, with reveille and the Japanese in marine uniforms. Meatball, who'd been hiding under the building, came and licked T.J.'s face as he lay listening.

"Hey, Meatball!" He whispered, rubbing the dog's ears. The pooch had a nasty cut over one eye, no doubt from a Japanese soldier, T.J. would bet. "Poor puppy."

After deciding he'd heard all he could, he began to worm his way back out. He stopped though as he heard voices close by, and struggled to hang on to Meatball, who'd made up his mind to eat the soldiers. There was a cry of pain and a commotion as the soldiers left to attend to their injured comrade. T.J. hurried out and dove into the bushes, nearly landing on Casey.

"MacArthur!" He panted, "MacArthur's coming in on a courier plane! That's why they wanna make everything look normal. They're gonna try and take him."

"Mac-MacArthur?" Casey asked dubiously, "Well, we gotta do something! We just gotta!"

* * *

Gutterman had moved to sit on the table behind Bettie when the professor, Ishio Kato, had come in to speak to them. She'd remained on the bench, listening to the academic. He wanted to look out the window at the activity outside, and it also let him plant a foot on either side of her on the bench, leaving her sitting between his knees. It's not like there was much any of them could do to protect her but he could at least make her feel safe. After all, this was the girl who'd practically climbed on top of him squealing the first time a large lizard had managed to find its way into their tent. Despite their differences, she was his best friend on this island, and he'd do what a best friend and wingman always should do—guard her back.

Her fingers picked nervously at the knots in her hair. She'd been so excited this morning—was it only this morning?—to get out to her new plane that she'd neglected to brush her hair. And now, with nothing better to do except wait until they were ordered to line up at the strip, she combed her long fingers through her hair, straightening up the rat's nest it had turned into. She couldn't believe what they'd just heard. General MacArthur was on his way to Vella!

Kato left with Boyington, and the rest of the Black Sheep buzzed with the news, talking amongst themselves. They were only silenced when the guard pointed his rifle at them, shouting in Japanese. She finished braiding her hair in a neat French braid. No matter what was going to happen, she wanted her hair tied out of her face. The task was done too quickly though, and she was left with nothing to do except wait. It would be a long day, if they all lived to see the end of it.

Hutch had been quietly watching across the room, nursing his headache, when he decided that Gutterman was being a little too familiar with his sister. He knew that they shared a tent, and he knew that they were good friends, but Hutch was still a jealous older brother. Moving slowly with his hands in sight of the guard, he shooed Gutterman and took his spot.

"Finally get a day off to spend with my sister and this happens." He mumbled, trying to make it less obvious that he was being territorial.

Bettie smiled up at him and leaned her head against his knee. She couldn't do anything, and every time she made a move to get some scotch to clean his wound, she was herded back to her seat. But she could hide how afraid she was, and make the guys feel like she didn't need protected.

Boyington returned, and he explained that he'd given his word that they'd cooperate, and looked around meaningfully. He wasn't going to see anyone die today, if he could help it.

"You mean we have to deal with those creeps?!" Bragg exclaimed.

"No, Jerry."

"Then what do you mean?" asked Jim, rubbing his hand across his mouth thoughtfully.

"I mean I want French to have proper medical attention, and I want all of us to have some food. And if we do move on these guys," Greg continued, "at least we'll have a fighting chance. Now if we try anything… if we try it right now, it's going to be suicide. So we wait. And maybe, at the last moment, it will be suicide. But that will be the _last_ resort. Understood?"

Bettie cleared her throat and nodded with the rest.

"But did you have to give him your word?" Jerry whined.

"Jerry, you know I never keep my word." Greg flashed the group a roguish grin.

Just then, Kato came in, his face dark with anger. "The flag, Major." He growled at Boyington, directing him outside. The rest of the group crowded to the window as a commotion arose outside.

"There's a jeep going crazy!" someone called out from the front of the group.

Further out, the familiar sound of a Corsair taking off roared over the noise from the jeep. Bettie's heart leapt. Was that T.J.? She hoped that whoever was flying would get them help. They couldn't hear over the sounds of the soldiers and the jeep what Boyington or Kato were saying, but they were arguing outside. Suddenly, the screen door slammed open and Saguchi stormed in.

"That man is going to die!" He declared, pointing straight at Gutterman. There was brief struggle before he was tied and dragged out, and the Colonel and his guards held the rest of the pilots at gunpoint. They stayed seated, anxiously looking towards the door, wondering what was going on.

"Are they going to shoot Gutterman?" Hutch finally asked.

"They're setting up a firing squad!" French exclaimed, as he rushed to the door. The rest were close behind. Hutch's hand closed on the back of Bettie's neck as he pinned her to the doorframe to prevent her from trying to push past the guard at the door and do something stupid. He liked Gutterman well enough, but he wasn't going to let Bettie get hurt trying to save him.

Bettie could see Gutterman, trying to stand his ground, but his lip was trembling and he was blinking rapidly, trying to keep tears from coming. He was just a kid still-he'd never thought it would end like this. Not even a fighting chance. Gutterman could see the faces of his friends in the windows of the Sheep Pen, watching. He wasn't sure if he'd rather they watch or look away.

Bettie hid her face in her brother's chest. "I can't watch." She whimpered. No shots came though, and she eventually peeked out the window again. The firing squad was lowering their weapons and Jim collapsed against the crate they'd propped him up on. Boyington was sent inside to get them.

"The courier plane'll be here in twenty minutes."

* * *

Outside, Saguchi ordered them to form up in two lines. If there was anything the Black Sheep was worse at than saluting, it was lining up. They stumbled into enough of a pair of lines to satisfy Saguchi. Bettie found herself sandwiched between Gutterman and her brother. Fine by her. She hurriedly put on her garrison cap as the line moved forward.

It was passed back that one line was to follow Gutterman into the jungle at the airfield, and they'd make their stand there. Her pulse quickened as she tried to stay calm. She'd be in the way if she panicked. All she had to do was get to the trees. They were there now, and lining up. Time was almost up. Her palms were sweating and she dried them on her trousers. As soon as she did though, they were moist again. Everything seemed a little brighter, a little louder, a little slower than normal. The plane was making its descent, the Japanese filing behind them. Her heartbeat was pounding away in her ears. It was all she could hear, and she felt fear clawing its way through her chest.

Then, a cacophony of shots rang out from the direction of camp, and a hand grenade exploded as it landed amongst the Japanese. The marines hustled off the field and Gutterman grabbed Bettie's arm and hustled her into the forest when she froze.

"Get her outta here!" He snapped, pushing her further towards the jungle. Some of the Black Sheep had picked up dropped rifles, others had hand grenades. It was all happening so fast. Bragg pressed a grenade into her hand and shouted directions that she didn't understand. Why did he sound like he was underwater?

The others were throwing their grenades, and she yanked the pin out of hers and threw it too. It sent up dust and fire when it made contact with the ground near the Japanese. Shouts rang out and someone was pushing her down behind a crate. Anderson. He crouched over her and sighted down the barrel of his rifle, firing at the enemy. Within a minute the fight was over, but it felt like an eternity.

After the fight, the group of pilots gathered to meet up with their rescuers, who'd landed in the courier plane.

"Thanks, skipper." Greg patted the leader on his shoulder, after he explained that Casey was safe and sound, and on his way back.

T.J. bounded up to the group, grinning from ear to ear. "Hey!" He pushed through the crowd, "Everybody made it okay, huh?"

"Yeah," Greg agreed, "T.J., didn't you have the duty?"

The group dissolved into an argument over who had the duty, shoving and pushing as they all tried to shift the blame.

"Me no speaka da English!" French gestured when he was questioned.

"You no what?" Greg laughed in disbelief. Only these guys.

T.J. grinned boyishly, "I think it was Bettie."

She jumped at the use of her name. "No! I was only up to work on my bird!" She retorted, shoving him.

He wrapped her in a big, smothering hug that she struggled to get out of, "Ah yes, little Miss Mechanic, hard at work." He chuckled.

"Mmph! Lemme go!" She complained, her voice muffled by his body.

Now that the danger was over, the guys were back to their normal antics, horsing around with each other.

"Speaking of planes, have you seen yours, Bettie?" French asked, grinning. He spoke English just fine now.

"Of course I did. We're standing right next t-" Her sentence cut off as she actually looked at her plane for the first time since she brought it home. She was pretty sure that it didn't have a beautifully painted piece of nose art when she stole it off Espritos the day before. The group of grinning pilots, all of whom had know about it, laughed at her surprised expression.

"Wha-… How… when? When did this…?" She stammered, taking it in.

"We figured, a bomber-trained pilot like you, darlin'… might be more comfortable in a bird with a bit of pretty." Gutterman, drawled, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. He'd been the one to suggest it to Boyington, as soon as he'd found a plane for them to commandeer for her.

She shot him a dirty look, before turning her attention to the plane again. She stepped closer and hesitantly touched the paint, half afraid it was wet, since it was so glossy. It was her, she was pretty sure, though she wasn't nearly that voluptuous. The figure was kneeling, back slightly arched, and dressed in what looked to be a marine uniform that had been turned into cut off shorts and a midriff-baring shirt tied around her ribs and barely closed. The girl held a teddy bear to her chest

and gazed back with a coy, red lipsticked smile, flight goggles perched jauntily on her head and a long black braid trailing out behind. On her bicep was a tattoo of the squadron's shield. And stenciled under her was "Little Sister's Toy" in the same script Hutch had used on Boyington's plane. Her name was printed neatly below the cockpit, and they'd even applied her kill flags. But her favorite part was that they'd painted a replica of her silver WASP wings below her name.

"I don't even… who did all of this? It's amazing." She looked at the group, still bewildered. Between the stress of that morning and the excitement of her beautiful plane, she'd never recover.

"We all did, a bit." Greg offered, "Everyone pitched in to help design. It was Jim's idea. And Hutch and French got it put on last night."

"I just did all the lettering and the wings." Hutch held up his hands. He was not going to paint her like that, no matter what orders he got. "Just please don't get shot down. That was a lot of work, and we won't do it to the next one."

She laughed and hugged him, before moving to French, then Gutterman, then Greg.

"I won't." She promised, chuckling, "Thanks, you guys. All of you, for helping."

* * *

Back at camp, the group set about repairing whatever was the least that they had to do. They were exhausted, now that the adrenaline had drained away. Unfortunately, Wiley's jeep had collapsed many of the tents, so there was quite a bit of work to do. It was done quickly, though, with all of them working together. The jeep had ended up in Bragg and Boyle's tent, but nothing had been damaged beyond repair. A little pushing and the jeep was returned to its parking spot. Tents were re-erected, belongings gathered and put back into place.

It was still early in the afternoon, since MacArthur had been scheduled to come at 1000 hours. With nothing left to do after clearing up the camp, but was determined for once and for all to go look over her new toy. Not even the whole Japanese fleet could stop her. She was drawing nearer and nearer to her plane, tools in hand/ She thought she might finally be able to take apart her engine and overhaul it, without interruption. And after this morning, that's all she needed.

"Hey!" She heard from behind her. She stopped and threw her head back with a frustrated groan.

"Wiley, you're standing between me and an engine to overhaul." She warned as he caught up to her. He didn't seem overly concerned as he sauntered up, hands in pockets. Though he did keep an eye on the wrench in her hand. He didn't forget the last time she'd been angry with him.

"I just wanted to see how you were doing… after this morning… Pappy's worried." He trailed off. Honestly, he had no idea what Pappy thought, and he had no other reason to see her other than to see her.

"I'll be just fine once I get myself shoulder deep in the engine of that fine, Vought F4U Corsair sitting on that strip with my name on it." She grumbled. Was it too much to ask? All she wanted was to work on her plane. It was soothing, and God knows she needed that.

"I was wondering if you felt like taking a flight?" He asked, hopefully. He'd been wracking his brains for something he could do with her, that she really liked. Romantic picnics on the beach under the stars seemed to cliché for her. But she loved to fly.

"T.J. didn't I just say that I needed an overhaul?" She knew that the pilots cared little for preventative maintenance, but that was what kept birds flying, and not free falling.

"I know. I thought we could take my bird." He flashed her a winning smile. She looked back, skeptical.

"We? We as in two people in one plane?" She crossed her arms, wrench still in hand. "I don't think we'd fit."

"We will! C'mon… fly with me, Bettie."

She shook her head. "T.J. Wiley, you're mad." As she walked away, she heard him stomp in frustration. A glance backwards showed him with his hands raised in frustration, begging for patience to deal with this girl.

"Look! I like you, okay? I like you a lot. I've liked you since you first set foot on this island. I just want to spend time doing something you enjoy with you! Will you give me a break?!"

Bettie stopped dead. She knew he liked her, but she never expected him to actually _say_ it. She slowly turned looking at him, surprise written all over her face.

"Please?" He held his hands out to her in supplication.

She thought for a moment, before speaking with a little giggle, "Can I teach you how to fly?"

T.J. threw his hands up again and turned to go. "Okay, fine. I'm sorry I asked."

"Wait…" Bettie called after him, her voice soft. He hesitated, looking back at her.

She was taking her wings off her uniform shirt, and buttoned them safely in her breast pocket. "I'm sorry, I know I'm not the easiest girl to woo…"

"Okay," she breathed, before clutching her hands together and looking up at him flirtatiously through her lashes. "Oh please, Lieutenant Wiley, won't you take me up in that big, old plane of yours? I've _always _wanted to fly." She simpered in a breathy voice, like the girls she'd seen in the movies. She couldn't help but giggle at how ridiculous she sounded, but for some reason, she didn't mind sounding like a fool for him.

T.J. couldn't stop himself from laughing. He'd wondered why she had taken her wings off, but now he understood. She was too cute, pretending to be a regular girl.

"Why, I'd love to, Miss Hutchinson. I have to warn you though, it can be quite frightening. I'll keep you safe, though." He said, trying to sound like a gallant pilot. He couldn't do it without laughing. "Go grab your flight helmet and Mae West. I'll start the preflight."

When she'd gotten her things and met him at his plane, he was already dressed and in the cockpit, warming up the engine. She was up on the wing, and looked dubiously down into the small space.

"I don't think I'm going to fit…"

"Trust me!" He called over the sound of the engine. "You will."

He helped her climb in and settle into his lap. It was hard for her to keep her long legs out of his way, but at least he could see over her shoulder. She slid the canopy shut and he began to taxi away.

"We're gonna die. We're both gonna die." She mumbled. She couldn't believe he'd talked her into this.

* * *

From the OP shack, Greg looked up as he heard a Corsair start up. Must be Bettie. He knew she was dying to take her bird out. Gutterman came into the OP shack, looking a little more surly than usual.

"What's got your goat?" Boyington asked, raising an eyebrow at his executive officer.

"Nothin'. Had a bad day, that's all. Nearly died, y'know." Gutterman flung himself down into a chair.

"Bettie taking off?" Greg questioned further. It took more than a near death experience to get Jim like this.

"Her 'n Wiley."

Greg hadn't heard two planes start up. "Together?"

"That's the way of it."

Boyington began to piece things together. He'd known that T.J. was all goopy over their girl since he'd met her, and that he occasionally made feeble attempts to make it known. It sounded like he'd gotten serious. Taking any girl flying, especially that girl, was big stuff. And for some reason, that had displeased Gutterman. It seemed, Greg thought, that maybe T.J. wasn't the only one interested.

"I see." He turned back to the stack of maps he'd been working with.

**The drama, I love it. I can't help myself.**


	12. Chapter 12

Jim had been doing his laundry, in the wake of the jeep's destruction. Anything he had that had been clean wasn't after that morning, so he needed to amend that. The washtub was in view of the airstrip, and he watched Bettie saunter out to her plane. Of course, Wiley was close on her heels. He muttered in disgust as he turned to his washing, scrubbing his frustrations out on his pair of fatigue trousers. When he looked back up, Bettie was clambering into the cockpit of Wiley's plane, and their laughter drifted over to him as they tried to maneuver to fit them both.

He wasn't sure when it happened, but he found himself feeling more protective of her, more jealous. He tried to tell himself that it was normal. She was his wingwoman and his tentmate. It happened often enough, getting jealous of your wingman. When you saved them and counted on them to save you, it just happened. But this morning, when he'd seen the terror on her face as she was marched into camp on the end of a bayonet… the way he'd felt… He shook his head and scrubbed harder. He wasn't going to let anyone know how he felt towards her. T.J. was much more popular than he, and he knew that there was no point in duking it out over a girl that would lay them both out rather than choose. Living with her was going to kill him, he was sure of it.

He realized he was going to wear a hole in his pants before he worked out all his aggression, and slopped them into the rinse tub, swirling them around. As he was pinning them up on the line, he wondered when Casey would be coming back to the island. He had to admit—the little desk jockey had impressed him. It was no small feat to take off knowing you'd be shot down. He should check with Greg and see if he knew when they'd ship him back. The last of his laundry pinned up to dry, Gutterman headed off to the OP shack. If he was lucky, Boyington would have something for him to do to keep his mind off of Bettie and T.J.

* * *

Though it was a bit cramped in the cockpit, Bettie was enjoying being able to look around without fear of drifting into anyone else. Though, if T.J. thought that taking off her wings made her any less of a pilot, he was a fool. She started tweaking his fuel mix, setting it to where it should be.

"Hey! What are you doing?" He protested, reaching forward to change it back. She slapped his hand away.

"Just trust me. Fly one flight like this, okay?" She scolded him. "Here, let me show you."

He turned the controls over to her unwillingly, and moved his feet as she took over the rudder pedals from him. He never had this problem with any of the nurses he'd taken up. Bettie adjusted things a bit more to her liking, before pulling the stick over into a steep bank, dropping down sideways out of the cloudbank. The water sparkled underneath them and she leveled out. She didn't know this plane, but once she adjusted it to a better mix, it felt pretty good. She couldn't resist a gleeful whoop as she pulled the plane back into a sharp climb, until she'd pulled it completely over onto its back. She could hear T.J. swearing a blue streak as he scrabbled to hold on to something. She pushed the nose down, completing the loop she'd begun and let the bird dive for a moment, before pulling it up once more into a bank, circling the lagoon of Vella.

"What the hell are you doing, Bettie?! You're going to kill us!"

She leveled off, letting the bird cross over Vella La Cava, headed west. She'd forgotten that T.J.'s flying mostly consisted of trying to remain level and out of the range of the Zeros' guns. He could fly, but he didn't like to push his bird as much as she did.

"Sorry…" she had to speak up to be heard over the sound of the engine. "I like to fly."

She dropped into a slow right bank, bringing the Corsair back around to the island.

"I'll set her down." She said, lining up with the end of the runway. His hand covered hers on the stick.

"Not yet, I'm having fun. Just go easy on me. I'm an old man." He was teasing her and she elbowed him gently. "I just can't keep up with you young girls anymore." He continued.

"You're what, twenty-one? Twenty-two? Pappy keeps up with me just fine. What's your excuse?" She sassed him back. He'd guided the plane away from the island and out over the waters around it.

"All right, teach how to fly, since my flying so obviously offends you." He chuckled, turning the stick back over to her.

* * *

Greg shaded his eyes with his hand as he watched the Corsair touch down. The courier plane bringing back Casey was a few minutes out, and he'd gone to meet the plane. Bettie taxied the plane out of the way and shut down.

"Courier plane incoming, Pappy!" She hollered as she slid back the canopy and wormed her way out.

"That'll be Casey." He called back. They must've met the plane in the air. T.J. followed her down, looking sheepish. Greg smiled slightly. He'd bet his front teeth that Bettie had done something to shame his piloting skills.

The two joined Boyington to wait for the other plane. T.J. was torn between wishing that it was him who'd gotten the message out, and glad that it wasn't him who'd been fished out of the Pacific. A moment later, the plane was descending to the island. As Casey disembarked from the large plane Bettie let out a loud whistle and waved her Mae West in the air over her head. Casey turned bright red at the attention, and hurried over.

"Hey, guys. Hey, Pappy." He greeted them, still blushing. Boyington shook the young lieutenant's hand.

"Good job, Larry. I'm proud of you."

"T-Thanks, Pappy." He grinned, shaking Boyington's hand. Bettie leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. Casey's face burned even more, and he ducked his head shyly.

"Thank you, Larry. That was brave of you." She smiled at him shyly. T.J. cleared his throat slightly. "Oh, thanks to you, too." She laughed, hugging him.

He was disappointed that he didn't get a kiss either, but he supposed that Casey had been shot down for it. Boyington watched in amusement as T.J. obviously was struggling with jealousy, and Casey kept glancing shyly at Bettie, unable to look away for more than a few seconds. Of course Casey would develop a crush on her, with how many nights they'd been up late, plotting supply runs and charting inventory. She was just the kind of organized that he needed to be his right hand in running their pirate empire.

It made Boyington wonder just who else was starry eyed over her. She wasn't the prettiest girl around, sure, but she was sweet and thoughtful, and despite her insecurity, she was still enough of a looker to turn heads—and for more than just her height. He wouldn't have been surprised if she had admirers at other bases that they traded with as well.

"Well, c'mon, kids. Missions don't stop just because the Japanese invade. Tomorrow will be an early one." Boyington ushered them all back towards camp.

* * *

That night was quiet, as everyone turned in early, exhausted from the day. Gutterman was already in his cot by the time Bettie got back from the showers. She killed the light and climbed into her own bed.

"Jim?" She whispered in the darkness. He grunted from across the room. Good, he wasn't asleep yet. "Thank you for taking care of me today." She started. He stayed quite.

"I'm sorry I wasn't much help during the fight… and I'm sorry I didn't do anything when they took you out." She continued, wondering if he'd say anything. "You were so brave, today. Everyone was. But especially you…"

She rolled over, not expecting a reply anymore. "I just wanted to let you know that. And I'm sorry I didn't watch. I couldn't stand to see them… you know."

After a moment, she heard his voice, "I was scared shitless, to be quite honest with you, darlin'. Bravery is just doing what you have to do. Even you did that."

"Thank you." She whispered, "Good night, Jim."

"G'night… Bettie."

* * *

The mission the next day was a milk run—just bomber escort with no signs of Zekes. The Black Sheep were glad. If it had been hard, they weren't sure they would have made it. Once the bombers were safely on their way home, the 214 split off and headed home.

Upon landing and parking her bird, Bettie shed her flight gear and left it in the cockpit. She didn't look back toward the field as she headed to change into her work clothes. Today, not the Japanese, or T.J. Wiley and that grin of his, or even God Almighty himself was going to stop her from gutting her plane and completely overhauling it. She changed quickly to her ratty flight suit and that old uniform shirt that she tied up high around her waist. She was sure that the shirt was the inspiration for her nose art, though her bird wore it better. Several days ago she'd noticed the patch on the seat of her flight suit, and she hadn't bothered to take it off.

Soon, she was happily taking apart her engine, cleaning and replacing parts as needed, and getting to know her aircraft. Most pilots thought of their birds as somewhat anthropomorphic, even though they were just hunks of metal hurtling through the air. Bettie was no exception. She was nearly through her engine in the matter of an hour or so, since she'd been taking her time. A plane droned nearer and she looked out from the shade of her cap—well, T.J.'s cap, since she'd never returned it after her driving lesson—and scanned the skies. A small personnel plane, an L-5 by the looks of it, was making the approach to Vella's strip.

As it taxied to a stop, she watched curiously as a member of the Press Corps clambered out. She wondered what on earth he was doing at Vella. She wasn't curious enough to stop working though, and she turned back to it as Hutch strolled out to greet the man. They talked for a moment and Hutch gestured her way and returned to his work. The man made his way over to her and "Toy," as she affectionately referred to her plane, his photographer trailing after him.

"Where can I find Lieutenant Hutchinson?" He asked, shading his eyes for a better view of the girl painted on the side of the plane. He noticed a greasy rag hanging out of the back pocket of the figure kneeling on the plane above him, and a squadron patch on the other.

"Yo." Bettie answered, turning around to look down. The officer visibly started when he realized that the mechanic on the plane was, in fact, the girl featured on it.

"You got 'er." She smirked. While she was fairly well known around the theatre, it was by word of mouth only, and she knew that the Lady Lieutenant-Little Sister of 214 rumor probably hadn't gotten to the press yet. She enjoyed her notoriety, she had to admit. And the officer below looked flustered at the dawning realization that the girl in front of him, dressed in rags practically, was his assignment. She wiped her hands on her rag. "What can I do for ya?"

"_You're _Lieutenant Hutchinson?" He asked in disbelief. She slipped off her bird with a whoop and dropped to the ground.

"Beatrice R. Hutchinson, Second Lieutenant, USMC, four-two-eight-three-six." She offered the man a hand to shake as she recited her name, rank, and serial number. She looked bemusedly at him. "Lady Lieutenant, I know. You'll get used to it."

He gawked up at her. He'd known that Lieutenant Hutchinson was female, but no one warned him that she was nearly six feet tall! He shook himself, and took her hand to shake.

"Captain Mark Branson, Press Corps. That's my photographer, Lieutenant Mike Davis. We were sent to do an interview with you… since you are." He motioned to the photographer as he introduced him, but he was still eyeing Bettie up and down.

She shrugged good-naturedly and laughed. "What Captain? Did you expect me to have a shaved head? A ring in my nose?" He still was looking at her funny.

"Listen, Captain, why don't you and the Lieutenant head on over to the Sheep Pen for a drink, and I'll finish up here and meetcha." She rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly. "After I get cleaned up a bit." She added.

The two officers agreed and headed to camp, telling her they'd be just fine finding their own way and they'd see her soon. She watch them depart, and her brother joined her.

"What'd they want?" He ask, tipping his hat back with a wrench.

"Interview. Lady pilot, and all." She answered. Something about the way the Captain had been looking at her made her feel weird. It was worse than having to change in front of Saguchi and his men. "I don't wanna do it. I don't like him. Gives me the creeps." She added quietly.

"I'll go let Pappy know. You know how he feels about the press corps. He won't make you. Go finish putting your bird back together and take a test flight." He pushed her gently towards her plane. "Come back when you feel like it. Hell, go get a drink on Espritos and come home tonight. We'll handle these guys."

* * *

Hutch had explained the situation to Boyington, and Greg couldn't resist the opportunity to make a fool out of the press corps. He gathered all the Black Sheep together and explained his plan.

"I just don't know what's taking her so long!" Boyington exclaimed over a glass of scotch. As commander, he'd gone to greet their guests at the Sheep Pen and buy them a drink—after briefing everyone. "Hey, Jim! Is she changing?" He called to Gutterman, who'd just come in.

"Yes, sir. She just kicked me out to get ready." He agreed, "She oughta be here soon."

"Are you her wingman?" Captain Branson asked, taking the bait. He leaned forward, readying his notebook. "What's it like? You know, living with her and flying with her?"

"Oh, just about like livin' with any other man." Jim took a seat and kicked up his feet on the table. That was obviously not the answer that the writer was looking for.

"There's nothing odd about living with her?" He pressed.

"Well now, come to think of it… no." Gutterman tipped back his hat. He wasn't going to tell these men anything about Bettie's habits.

"Oh… how's her flying? She fly like the rest of the men?" He was obviously disappointed at the answer.

"Well, no…" Boyington said slowly. He was trying to build up a bit of tension. Anything they said would seem more real if they made it seem like they were divulging it. "You see, she's fearless. I once saw her play chicken with three Zeros. She lead them straight into the ocean. Bam!" He clapped his hands, making the press officers jump.

The other Black Sheep who'd been trickling into the building jumped in with their tales of her daring flying, each clamoring over the others.

"I saw her down four Zekes one flight!"

"She did six when I flew with her!"

"She crashed three into a mountain, too!"

Branson scribbled as fast as he could, trying to get down all her exploits. "Just how many kills does this girl have?!" It seemed too good to be true.

"We gave up on counting after she made a triple ace." T.J. proclaimed, nodding seriously.

"There's only three kills on her bird, though I saw it today." Branson looked up, confused.

"Yeah, one for every time she made ace. She's done it since then, but she's too modest to add more flags." T.J. lowered his voice leaning in.

"And just how did a woman get to be a lieutenant in the Marine Corps?" Branson was apparently buying all their outrageous stories.

"Would you believe it, she dressed as a man all through flight school, and kept it up 'til her transfer here!" Anderson explained. "She was in flight school with me! I never knew."

As they went on and on, the stories got more and more wild. Finally, the Captain realized what the time was, and exclaimed that they needed to get back to Espritos. He didn't even seem to care that Bettie had never shown up, since his notebook was brimming with juicy material. The squadron accompanied the two out to the airstrip.

"Wave goodbye to Captain Branson, everybody!" Greg grinned as the L-5 carrying the captain taxied away. "That'll be the last article he'll ever write."

Bettie set down not a minute after the L-5 disappeared from sight.

"How'd they take it when I didn't show?" She asked, climbing out of her plane.

"Oh, fine. Just fine. They understood that you were busy." Greg said airily. She suspected something had happened, by all the mischievous smiles that met her, but she didn't press the issue.

* * *

A week had passed since the Japanese had invaded, and things were finally getting back to normal. Everyone was a little more jumpy and alert than normal, but it had calmed down. The 214 was flying an escort mission for the bomber wing at Pelitau. They were on their way to rendezvous with the flight. A girlish giggle came over the radio, followed by Bettie's voice.

"Hey, Gutterman…"

Jim glanced over his shoulder at his wing-gal. What he saw made him jump and slip sideways away from her, and nearly into T.J.

"Hey! Watch it, Jim!" Wiley complained, pulling up a bit to avoid Gutterman.

Bettie continued to fly along in formation, albeit upside down. "You know, these birds do a lot more than we ask them to." She mused.

Greg tipped his wing down a bit to see what was going on and was treated to a view of the belly of her plane. "Formations are flown right side up, Lieutenant Hutchinson." He chuckled. Of all his pilots, he could always trust her to get bored on the flight out to a rendezvous.

Her giggle was heard again and she dropped out of formation to right herself, before joining up again. She knew if she'd been one of the men, Boyington would have chewed her out for her stunts that she tended to pull. She didn't know if it was her age, her gender, or the fact that he found her amusing that let her get away with it, but she didn't care. Routine flights were boring.

"Sweet thang, give me a head's up next time you pull something like that." Gutterman drawled. While he wasn't the only one to use a pet name for her, he was the only one she allowed to.

"At this point, you should just expect it from me, Jim!" She teased.

"All right, guys. Stop playing with Little Sister and form up. We'll be meeting that bomber wing in about two minutes."

"Actually, Black Sheep Leader, you got us early." An unknown voice broke into the conversation.

"Hey, Foxhole Leader! Good to hear from you." Boyington greeted the leader of the bombers.

"Foxhole 1, here. Is that Little Sister I hear?" The pilot of another bomber asked as the bombers came into view.

"Sure is!" Greg replied. After flying mission after mission with the same pilots, everyone got to know each other a bit, and Bettie was fairly popular with the bomber wing, even though many of them had never met her on the ground. "All right, Black Sheep. Keep a sharp eye out."

The Japanese had scrambled and met them in the air over the target. "All right you, guys, be safe!" Boyington warned as they broke off in pairs.

Bettie and Jim got themselves a pair of Zeros to handle. They latched on to Gutterman, and he brought them around in front of her. She fired on the one closer to him, raking down the length of the craft, but she didn't do any critical damage. He broke off and she set her sights on the second. As she pursued him, she struggled to keep him in her sights.

"Bettie! You got one on ya!" She heard Jim as her plane shuddered. The plane she'd wounded had turned around and come back for revenge.

"Ya don't say?!" She growled, pulling her stick over into a sharp bank, dropping out of the hail of bullets. "Care to give me a hand?"

"I gotcha, I gotcha." Jim's voice sounded casual as he competed his turn to drop behind the Zero. A moment later the smoking plane was falling towards the ocean, and a white chute puffed and billowed as the pilot floated to safety.

She pulled back up and checked her controls, making sure nothing was too damaged. It all seemed to be in order, so she jumped back into the flight, finding her original target, who'd set his own sights on French. Boyle was French's wingman, but he was dealing with another Zero elsewhere.

"Hiya, French. I got a score to settle with that guy. Mind if I cut in?" She called, dropping into place behind the Zero.

"Be my guest… But hurry!" French responded. His tail flaps were looking a bit shredded.

Realizing what was happening, the Zeke tried to drop out of the fight, but Bettie dove with him and finished him off. She didn't bother to check for a chute. He wasn't one of their own.

"Hey, number four! Go Bettie!" French cheered. The bomber leader broke in.

"Foxhole Leader to Black Sheep, our job's done. We're gonna head on home."

"Roger, Foxhole Leader." Greg responded, "C'mon, you meatheads. Let's go home!"

The Corsairs formed up and set their propellers towards home, leaving the Zeros to limp home. It had been a success, not a single bomber or Corsair lost.

* * *

Hutch was waiting at the strip, binoculars in hand when they arrived home. He'd gotten word from a coast watcher over the radio that Bettie was getting a new kill flag. That put her at one short of an ace. He knew she was itching to get her five kills, and it would only get worse now that she was only one away. He knew that Boyington would sit her down and give her the same talk he gave every four-kill pilot—getting yourself or your squad mates killed wouldn't get you that fifth kill any quicker. He counted as they approached as was relieved to see that all had come home, and no one was trailing black smoke. He was glad that they all were safe, and soon they'd be home.

He was up on Bettie's wing practically as soon as her craft started moving. She opened the canopy and killed the engine, looking hopefully at him. Had he gotten the radio call confirming number four?

"You got it! Congratulations!" He grinned, reaching into the cockpit to hug her.

"Ack! Lemme get out!" She laughed. She crammed herself into that cockpit nearly every morning, but by the time she landed, all she wanted was to be out of it.

She clambered down and unhooked her harness for her parachute and dropped the equipment onto the ground as she stripped off her helmet and he Mae West. The gear was heavy, and she didn't like to wear it a second longer than she had to. She hugged Hutch as soon as she was free from it all.

"There, that's better." She laughed. "Gotta go!"

Boyington was calling his pilots for debriefing.

* * *

On the way out of the operations shack after the debriefing, she felt Casey press something into her palm with a wink. She looked down to find a pair of round, silver framed glasses in her hand. She felt the color drain from her face as she looked at them. Jim must've told Casey. How else would he have known?

Seeing her blanched complexion, Casey hissed, "Don't worry about it. I won't breathe a word."

She replied with a small, shaky smile, and hurried away from the crowd of pilots heading to the Sheep Pen and made her way towards her tent. Back at the tent, she picked up the novel Jim had lent her again, and stared hard at the cover. Sighing, she opened up the glasses and put them on, and started to read. She was amazed at the difference. She could actually see the words clearly. No more guessing, no more squinting. She'd have to thank Casey. And Jim. She was sure that this was his doing. Now that she could see to read, she settled in happily, reading until Jim came back that night.

"You missed mess." He observed, taking off his boots and shoving them under his cot. She looked up, surprised.

"What time is it?!"

"Oh-seven-hundred, about."

Her eyes grew wide behind her new glasses. "I didn't even…"

Jim laughed. "I told you that you'd like it!"

She smiled sheepishly, "Yeah… you're right. Thank you…"

* * *

The next morning, they were back in briefing. A volunteer mission had come across the teletype machine, and Boyington needed a volunteer.

"Listen you guys, I need just one volunteer for a mission. You'll join up with the three-thirty-second and teach them how to handle Zekes. They're new to the theatre, fresh from Italy. They're used to fighting Germans, but they need to learn to fight the Japanese." He paused, looking at the group.

"Three-thirty-second, Pappy? I don't know them." Bragg asked. They all were wondering who the hell the 332nd was.

"They're an Army fighter group." Pappy explained, "They're-"

"Army?" Bettie questioned, "What's the Army doing down here?"

"The same the WASPs are, Bettie. Following orders. Now listen-"

"Aren't they out of Tuskegee? The three-thirty-second?" French asked. He thought it sounded familiar, but he didn't know why.

"Yes, but-" Boyington began again, but this time Jim cut him off.

"Aren't they those colored pilots that the Army was playing with?"

Boyington rolled his eyes in frustration. "Yes! And now they're stationed at Pelitau and they need to learn how to fly against Zeros. Anyone volunteer to show them how?"

He looked around at his men, who avoided eye contact with him. "C'mon. We were asked to volunteer because we've got one of the best records in the Pacific."

After a few moments of silence, Bettie spoke up. "Are you all kidding me? You'll fly with a woman, but not a group of-of-of colored men?!" She sputtered. She was outraged at the 214. "You're all here because no one will fly with you, anyways. Who're you to—ugh! I'll go. I volunteer." She held up her hand.

She just couldn't believe it. Of all the squadrons to judge someone for something like that, she didn't expect it to be them. She could tell Boyington didn't expect that reaction out of his men, either, and was disappointed.

"Okay, you guys. Dismissed. Bettie, you stay and I'll brief you."

She watched the Black Sheep as they trickled out, none of them meeting her gaze.

"I can't believe those guys!" She looked to Greg, her eyebrows drawn together. "I just can't…"

"I know, I'm disappointed to." He admitted. "Now listen. Tomorrow, you'll take your bird to Pelitau. You're gonna talk them through the technical stuff, and you're gonna take them up and teach them how to slip Zeros. And then you'll fly two missions with them. A bomber escort, and an attack on the airfield at Choisuel. You'll be back here by the end of a week. You got that?"

"Yeah…" She murmured. She was still thinking about the guys and the way they'd refused to take part. He patted her shoulder.

"You've got a good heart. I didn't get you attached to the two-fourteen for just Hutch's sake, kid."

She smiled ruefully. "Thanks, Pappy. I'll see you in the morning."

He handed her the orders. "Night, kid."

Back at her tent, she began to pack her bag for a week away from Vella. Jim was there, but refused to look at her. He wasn't going to let her shame him anymore than she had. Bettie turned out the light when she'd finished and settled into bed. She didn't feel like talking to him, anyways.

* * *

She didn't talk to any of the Black Sheep before she left, with the exception of Boyington and Hutch. None of them wanted to talk to her, either. She said goodbye to her brother, hugging him tightly, before turning to Boyington.

"See you in a week, Pappy." She said, a little shakily. She'd gotten used to her Black Sheep, and the idea of flying with another squadron scared her.

"Oh c'mere." Boyington pulled her in for a hug. "Make us proud, but make it back. Got it?"

She pulled away and flashed him a grin and a salute. "Yes, sir!"

She climbed up into her cockpit, looking back at the base one more time. None of them had even come to see her off. She swallowed the lump in her throat and flipped the power switch, before pressing the ignition buttons. Soon, she was on her way to Pelitau. She could only wonder what she'd find there.

**The 332nd was the fighter group in Italy that was the "Red Tails." It was an entire group of African American pilots, and they never lost a single bomber that they escorted the entire length of their service. So I borrowed them, because I think that they'd be the kind of people Bettie would admire.**


End file.
